


Sherlock as a Flatmate

by EnduringChill



Series: Sherlock as a Flatmate [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Complete, Completed, Eventual Sex, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Minor Violence, Peril
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 62
Words: 164,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringChill/pseuds/EnduringChill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's new female flatmate has moved in. Will they regret agreeing to share the same space? Can Sherlock suffer her frilly things? Can she survive Sherlock being himself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted to my Tumblr blog http://flatmate-sherlock.tumblr.com/
> 
> The story was inspired by photos and gifs which are a pain to replicate here. So I give the words. Go to Tumblr for the inspiration himself. 
> 
> Told in dueling point of views. 
> 
> Thank you to the compilers and betas in my life.

Flatmate

You watch me move my things into ‘your space’. I start to regret the decision to take the room. The flat is lovely with plenty of room - and close to work. The hour commute had been killing me. 

However your friend John assured me that you were a delight to live with. I have a feeling he would have sold his soul to leave you. 

“Don’t worry, Sherlock. This is just until I can find a place to buy in this area. This will not be a long term arrangement,” I notice you twitch.

“If you move too soon, I’ll only have to do this again,” you say. 

Your voice is deep and rich - and it should be comforting. Yet the lack of emotion puts me on edge. Your eyes and words move so fast that I miss things if I don’t concentrate. I am certain that I will mess up the kitchen schedule that you just rattled off to me.

* * * * * *  
￼  
Flatmate

“What do you figure? Panties? Thongs?” you ask.

“Wait, is this your new flatmate’s suitcase?” he looks up with a pair of black underpants in his hand. 

“What are you doing in my suitcase?” I stand in the doorway. 

He cocks his head to the side. “Sherlock, really?”

“Shhh….I’m teaching a lesson,” your eyes are steady on his red face. 

“On how to be a pervert?” I snap my pink case closed.

“I didn’t take you for a ‘pink’ person,” you smirk up at me.

“It was a gift!” I snap and drag my belongings back to my room. 

* * * * * * * *  
￼  
Sherlock

“Hmm,” I look at the calendar.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Last month, she was irritable on these seven days. So, based on the previous months….” I flip a page. “It would be on this day next week.”

“Sherlock, why are you trying to figure out her menstrual cycle?” he asks.

“I need to know the days when she will be the least rational,” I say plainly.

* * * * * * *￼  
Flatmate

 

“What are you doing?” I frown.

“I’m in my mind palace. Shh. I need absolute quiet,” you hiss. 

“Well you look ridiculous. If my mum calls round, how will I explain you?” I shake my head to go into the kitchen.

I sigh at the sight of your breakfast dishes piled in the sink and that bloody microscope in the center of the table.

“When you are done asking the genie for your last wish, can you pick up your mess?” I poke my head into the den.

I swear I see you smile under all that fabric. 

 

* * * * * * *

Flatmate￼

“Is that my toothbrush?” I see you scrubbing away at something I guess is a specimen. 

“I found it lying in the bathroom,” you answer.

“Yes, because that’s where you put toothbrushes!”

This is the second time one of my belongings has wound up in your hands covered in chemicals. I still don’t believe the explanation behind finding my pink panties in your possession. 

“I’ll get you another. I have to go out tomorrow.” You are unconcerned.

“And what do I do today?”

You sigh. “I have no time to help you through your day. Really…you are a grown woman. You should have sorted yourself years ago.”

I head to the chemist to get another toothbrush.

* * * * * * * *

Flatmate  
￼  
I look over my book. “You cannot be comfortable.”

Your eyes never leave the telly. “I can be and I am.”

“Aren’t you hot in your overcoat?” 

We’ve been living together for three months and I am no closer to understand your bizarre behavior. 

“Yes, it is warm,” you sigh. 

I forget that you hate banal chit-chat. I look at the telly. “The X-Factor?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes? Is there a point to you asking?”

I stand to leave. “I didn’t take you for X-Factor guy…..”

“Is that like your pink case?” you slip your eyes to me.

“It was a gift,” I say walking to the kitchen. “You, Sherlock, chose to put this shite on.”

“I’d love a cuppa,” you call.

“Great. Come make it,” I shout back.

I don’t see your grin.

* * * * * * * *￼  
Flatmate

 

The flat is quiet and dark when I open the door. Quietly, I close the door to click behind me.

 “You’re home late,” I hear your voice as I pass the den.

You lounge in the leather chair beside the non-working fireplace. Slowly, your head turns to me.

“What are you still doing up?” I stop.

“You know, thinking.” You glance at your watch . “You just made it home before this was technically a walk of shame.”

My eyes narrow. You are truly an infuriating roommate at times.

“Why do you care?”

“I suppose I don’t care about your reputation if you don’t,” you shrug. “I suspect your evening was adequate.”

“Clearly it was more than just adequate if I’m home this late,” I shift my weight.

Our eyes meet in a glare. Heat rushes to my face, first in anger then something else I cannot describe. I feel almost flustered under your scrutinizing eyes.

“Well, good night,” I say.

I notice your breathing has quickened. “Good morning…..actually.”

I swallow hard. I cannot decipher your gaze. “Fine…whatever.”

I flee down the hall to the safety of my room. 

* * * * * *  
Sherlock

I listen the ticking of the clock and my brain. It is just past two in the morning. I glance at my mobile. 

Have a good night - SH

No response. I know you thought I was rude to him. I suspect telling you that you were dating beneath you while he was standing there might have been…..wrong? 

I hear the click of the lock and the creak of the door. 

“You’re home late.”

“What are you still doing up?” you drop the keys onto the table.

“You know, thinking. You just made it home before this was technically a walk of shame.” I cluck.

“Why do you care?”

I sense an edge to your voice. What were you doing this late?

“I suppose I don’t care about your reputation if you don’t,” I dangle my arms over the chair. “I suspect your evening was adequate.”

I’m not sure why I care. I have more important things to do than ponder your romantic life. 

“Clearly it was more than just adequate if I’m home this late,” you shift your weight as your defenses go up. 

Our eyes meet in a glare. Your cheeks are red, not from the walk to the second floor. I sense that your pulse has quickened. Out of anger most likely. Or is it something else? Shame? Your hair is in place and your clothes are not disheveled. I don’t want to think why I take odd comfort in that detail.

“Well, good night,” you say. 

I feel something catch in my chest, like heartburn, or a flutter. “Good morning…..actually.”

“Fine…whatever.” 

Your footsteps echo down the hall. I brace for the slam of your door, but you don’t. 

I stare back at the wall. The energy in this flat is confusing lately. 

Perhaps having you move in was a mistake. 


	2. Chapter 2 - She says

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two - in which she learns about Sherlock's quirks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my wonderful compiler, NW. 
> 
> This is episode 6 through 10 from http://flatmate-sherlock.tumblr.com/

And that was the last time I had a friend come to the flat. You circled around her while spouting off true, but disconcerting facts about her. Her eyes were wide as you deduced her to death.

“Is this guy for real?” she asks me. 

“Unfortunately, yes,” I say. 

Later, you inform me that my taste in friends is lacking. 

* * * * * * * * 

￼  
Your face is unreadable when I enter the living room in a red dress. I’m applying lipstick in the mirror, and I see you watching me. 

“Am I doing it wrong?” I raise an eyebrow.

You seem broken from a concentration. “I would not pretend to know. It does bring out the color in your cheeks.”

“Thanks, I think.” I know this is as much of a compliment as I will get from you. 

I turn to look at you. Your fingers curl over the arms of your chair. I must have been living with you for too long, because I start noticing small things about you. The rise and fall of your chest - quicker than usual. The slight widening of your almond eyes. You won’t look away, but I’m sure you want to. 

The buzz of the intercom breaks our gaze. I walk into the hallway. “Hello?”

“I’m downstairs,” he says.

My eyes on you. “I’ll be right down.”

I see you swallow hard. You have something on your tongue that you want to say, but don’t. 

“Have a good night. Are you and John off on another adventure?” I gather my things. 

“You never know,” a genuine smile graces your face. It’s too bad you don’t do it more often - it makes you attractive - until you open your mouth.

“Whatever you do, have a good night,” I pause by the door.

You nod. “And you as well.”

On the elevator, my phone buzzes. I read the text -

You look lovely - SH

￼* * * * * * *

 

“Did you forget your keys….again?” I see your face in the video intercom. 

“And my wallet. Can you bring it down?” you ask.

“Or I could just let you up,” I say. 

“I doubt you are doing anything important right now,” you say.

I want to punch the screen.

“I’m in my dressing gown,” I sigh.

“I don’t care. I’m sure it is fine.” 

“I care. Go to the side of the house,” I instruct.

“Why would I do that?” I can hear the impatience in your voice. “I don’t have time for games.”

“Trust me, this will be quick,” and I click off the intercom.

I grab both your wallet and keys off the dining room table. Opening the window, I see you walk around the corner.

“Here, catch!” I launch your wallet out the window. 

From below, I hear some obscenities. I enjoy watching you scramble to save your wallet from certain death on the sidewalk. 

“My keys?” you call up, out of breath.

“On their way down,” I call. I might have ‘accidentally’ tossed them a little harder.

I peer down to see that you did indeed catch them. And I swear I see you smiling.

* * * * * * * *

￼  
I hear a sad violin coming from the den. I didn’t expect to see you in your leather chair playing it with a look so serene; I thought you might be someone else. I stand perfectly still and hold my breath. 

I watch your long fingers dance across the slender neck, and something in me stirs. I feel uneasy and I step back to go to my room.

You stop and look up. Our gaze holds from a moment before you look away. 

“Was I too loud?” you ask.

“No, it was beautiful. It didn’t sound familiar,” I say.

You set the violin on your lap. “I wrote it.”

“It was lovely. Would you play it again?”

“Not right now,” you stand. You walk past me and towards your bedroom.

Stopping, you say over your shoulder, “Thank you.”

* * * * * * *

￼  
“What are you doing?” I ask.

There you are in nothing but a white sheet on your computer. 

“Research,” your eyes don’t leave the screen.

“Are you wearing anything else?” 

“I find clothes too restricting while I sleep. Besides, it is Tuesday. I do not dress on Tuesday,” you glance over.

“Why?” I almost don’t want to know. 

You sigh. “Don’t you have to work?”

“You’re right,” The reasons are no longer important. I grab my bag and keys. “So, you stay like this all day?”

“Until sundown.”

“Good to know. Would have been better to know last month,” I mutter.

You look up. “Why? You didn’t live here then.”

“Precisely,” I open the door. I turn back. “By the way, do you walk in your sleep?”

“Not that I am aware, I’m asleep.” You look at me as if I’m slow.

“John didn’t mention it….I hope that wasn’t on purpose,” I say before I close the door behind me. 

* * * * * * * * * *  
￼  
“I made dinner, if you are hungry,” I look up as you walk into the dining room.

“Chili?” you sniff.

“Yes. It’s fairly basic,” I shrug. 

Your eyes narrow. “Beef?”

“Ground beef, look….you don’t have to eat it,” I sit at the table. “I was trying to be nice. I know, a concept you don’t understand.”

Your forehead furrows. “I understand it. I just don’t like carrots in my chili.”

“How did you know….?”

You never cease to amaze and unease me. 


	3. Wonderwall

Sherlock

It’s now half past two. Since I have enemies and you live with me, naturally I’m concerned when you are not home at this hour. Perhaps you are with a lover, but you could equally be in peril. I check my phone every 10 minutes for a text I might have missed.

I hear strange caterwauling echoing up the stairs from the hallway. My back straightens. Is that crying?

“Today is gonna be that day that they’re gonna give it back to you….mumble…..and all the lights are blinding…..”

I hear a thud followed by giggling - then more singing. I stand to get the door. On the other side, the key scrapes against the wood and doorknob. If I was not awake to let you in, you’d likely be sleeping against the door in the hallway. 

I open the door for you to tumble into my arms. 

“Shurlock,” your breath could intoxicate me. 

“Good morning,” I say. 

“I don’t believe that anybody feels the way I do about you…burp…now,” you blink looking up at me. 

You feel warm, flush from your stagger up the stairs. Your blue eyes are glassy and I cannot read the emotion on your face. I blame the alcohol. 

“Let’s get you to the sofa,” I wrap an arm around your waist to guide you. 

“Oh, you’re naughty, Shurlox. I didn’t think you had boy parts,” you titter.

My face is warm and my pulse quickens. “You need sleep.”

I sit you on the sofa, gingerly. 

“There are many things that I want to say to you, but I don’t know how….” a smile rests on your lips as your eyes attempt to focus on me. 

We stare at one another for a moment.

“Cuz maybe…..you’re gonna be the one to save me……” your voice trails off when your head tilts back against the couch.

I never had to tuck a drunk John into bed. I look down the hall toward your room. I might drop you if I try, that does neither of us any good.  
   
Cradling your head in my hand, I carefully lay you on the sofa. No sooner are you horizontal, I hear a soft snore escape your lips. 

I step back as you curl up on your side. My breath is uneven from carrying you and not the sight of your soft form on my leather sofa. 

Tightly, I squeeze my eyes shut. I take a deep breath and head to my room. 

You didn’t smell like a man’s cologne or soap. I feel my mouth twitch upwards.

* * * * * * *  
￼  
Flatmate

My head pounds like the large bass drums of a marching band. Though my eyes are closed, I know it is daylight. I move and my skin sticks to the leather sofa.  
Crap, I’m on the sofa. I hope I can move my desiccated carcass to my room before I’m found. 

I pry one crusty eye open and my heart stops. 

“Jesus Christ!” I utter as you are hovering over me with a small smile. 

“Good evening last night?” I can hear the amusement in your voice. 

I’m still in my dress and remarkably - my heels. 

Your back straightens as your hands clasp behind your back. 

“You were singing when you came home last night,” you muse.

I rub my sandpaper eyes. “Singing?” Ah yes, it was karaoke night and I usually need a lubricant to get on stage."

“Yes, I’m not familiar with pop music, but you kept singing about a wonder wall?”

“Oasis….you don’t know that?” I pull myself upright and my head screams in protest.

I notice that my skirt is high up my thigh - almost revealing my bits. I pull it back to my knees. Running a hand through my hair even hurts. 

“I am not familiar with that song. You don’t have a terrible voice, but I wouldn’t buy your record,” you say.

“Darn, there goes my dream of being Madonna,” I grumble. Your face remains unchanged. “You don’t who Madonna is?”

“I am familiar with her and no, you won’t be,” you move to the kitchen. I hear the water running. As I’m removing my shoes, you return with a glass of water and some pills.

“Here, you’ll need these if you are to survive the day.”

Cautiously, I take both items. “Thank you. Why are you being….dare I say….nice?”

“I was hoping you would give me a lift to the police station. However judging by your breath and appearance, you might not pass a breathalyzer,” that wry grin twists on your lips - those really full lips. 

God, I must still be drunk.   
￼  
“Do you buy your own clothes?” I ask. 

You frown. “Yes, why?”

“That shirt is a bit tight, wouldn’t you say?” I notice the buttons strain as you move. 

You look down. “Nonsense. I’m too busy to consider fashion.”

“Clearly….” I mutter. 

* * * * * * * * *

Flatmate  
￼  
I drop my laundry basket on the coffee table. 

“You are wily, Mr. Holmes,” I say. 

Annoyance sweeps across your face. “Excuse me?”

“I thought it was a mistake, but I have noticed, ever so slowly, that your dirty laundry has been turning up in mine,” I fish around the warm pile of clothes to pull out your shorts. 

“Well, you’d look silly in those,” you say. 

“In your shorts, yes I would,” I throw them at you when I see your lips curl. 

“I must have tossed them in the wrong room,” you wave your hand dismissively. 

“Why are you throwing underwear around?” 

You ignore me completely. 

I start pulling out socks, shorts and a shirt. “THIS is all yours.”

“So it is,” your eyebrow rises. You inspect the laundry. “The shirt is a bit wrinkled.”

“You should be lucky it is in one piece,” I toss over my shoulder as I storm down the hall.

* * * * * * * *  
￼ ￼  
Flatmate You’ve been hunched over the microscope for hours. You look away for a moment to a slide, then switch it with another one. You’ve said nothing all day. As far as I know, you’ve not eaten. 

“Are you hungry??” I ask.

“What day is it?” you ask.

“Sunday.”

“I’m fine until tomorrow afternoon,” you don’t look up. 

I have no idea why, but I go to the kitchen to make you a cup of tea. While I’m putting the kettle on, I wonder what the hell I’m doing going out of my way for you. You eat my food. You insult my friends. You take my clothes for your experiments. You critique my hair. I’m not certain you are even human. 

Regardless, I walk into the dining room where you sit glued to your trusty microscope. As I approach you from behind, I make note your broad shoulders and the dark curls brushing the collar of your shirt. Why are the little hairs on your neck lighter than the rest?

What is wrong with me?

I drop the cup of tea without a word and go to my room. 

I try to concentrate on a book when my phone buzzes. I look at the screen and feel ill.

Thank you - SH


	4. Sherlock's Curry

Flatmate  
￼  
In the middle of a project, I see a small window pop up. 

‘Incoming message from Baker Street’

What is this? I click on it, and in my cubicle for anyone to see is you wearing nothing but a sheet. That’s right, it’s Tuesday.

I minimize the screen before someone walks by. 

“What do you want?” I hiss lowly.

“We need milk and bread and tea and biscuits,” you simply say, your face zooming in on the camera. 

“I just bought milk yesterday. Did you spill it?” I frown.

“I drank it. Growing man, you know,” you grin. Your forced smiles are your creepiest. 

“Hardly. Why don’t you run to the shop and get it?”  I hear footsteps and minimize you more. 

“It’s Tuesday…how quickly they forget,” you sigh.

“No, I didn’t forget.” I wanted to have a date over for dinner but that won’t be tonight. Try explaining to anyone about your Tuesday ritual. “I’ve tried to block it like a traumatic event. Fine. Milk, tea, and bread.”

“Who’s the dish?” Nancy, a co-worker hangs over my shoulder. 

Shit.  
“My flatmate, Nancy. Do you mind?” I growl over my shoulder.

“I mind you for not sharing,” she clucks. “Keepin’ him for yerself?”

“Bugger off, please.” I did not need my entire company knowing about our weird living situation. I knew you were quirky - John prepared me for that. Sometimes, you go outside of quirky to just plain strange. 

“She’s rude,” you say. “And biscuits.”

“I think she wants your biscuits,” I say because I know you will squirm. Any physical contact - even the mere thought - makes you uncomfortable. 

“That’s incredibly vile,” and the screen goes dark.

That day, I receive 13 more transmissions from you. 

‘Do we have a broom?’

‘Where is the broom?’

‘Did you feed the cat?’

‘Never mind, we don’t have one. Mrs. Hudson is watching one of her shows. She is caterwauling’

‘What size do you wear?’

‘When will you be home? I’m thirsty’

I may need to have a talk with John Watson.

* * * * * * * * *  
￼  
As I sit on the stoop, I hear your shoes clack against the pavement. 

“Evening,” you say. 

“Evening,” I answer and hope you go inside, I’m not in the mood tonight. 

“Did you forget your key?”

“No, just getting some air.” It was an awful day ending with a terrible date. Another one bites the dust, and I have no idea what I did wrong. I am starting to believe that I will die alone or worse - with you. 

I feel you study my face.

“Your eyes are puffy and it is too cold for seasonal allergies,” you state. 

“What’s your point, Sherlock?” I sniff. “Just go inside.”

You don’t move but stare at me, expressionless. “What happened tonight?”

“I had a crap day. I’ve seen you covered in brain so I know that you can appreciate a bad day,” I say.  

You sit beside me on the stoop. “Or when I blew up the eyeballs in the microwave and shorted the whole building.”

I smile. “Yes. God that stench took days to leave the flat.”

“Was it him?” your voice ices. 

“Brian? Yes,” I shrug. “He met someone else. Same story different month, different name.”

I hear the leather of your gloves squeak as your rub your hands together. “I could have my friends in the homeless network make his life hell.”

I smile and lay my hand on your arm. “That is the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

You look down at my hand. “He doesn’t deserve you to consider him another moment. Know that.” You stand. “And he still sucks his thumb indicating an unnatural attachment to his mother.”

“How did you know that?” I ask.

Your smirk is genuine. “Just look at the state of his thumbs. Come on, it’s cold and I think we could both use some tea.” 

I’m stunned when you extend your hand to me.

“Am I making this tea?” I ask as you pull me to my feet. 

“Of course,” you nod. 

I look up at you and notice the high cheekbones that point to your azure eyes. “Thanks, Sherlock.”

Your mouth does that thing it does when you are attempting to hide a human emotion - your lips disappear into a thin line. You nod once before fishing in your pocket for the keys. 

“I….seem to have left my keys inside,” you say.

I laugh and take out mine. “At least I don’t have to launch them out the window.”

“No you don’t.”

Did I detect a drop of tenderness in that low rumble?

* * * * * * * * *  
￼  
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a familiar shape. No, there is no way. There is security - just no. 

But I see it again - that mess of curls, that scarf and that wool coat. What the hell are you doing at my work? I stand to see where you disappeared. Please don’t have a case connected with my job.

“I’m right here,” you are crouching beside my desk. 

“What are you doing here?” I try to keep my voice down.

“You need to leave with me right this minute,” you say. 

“What? Are you mad? Wait, forget I asked that. You are mad. I can’t leave work,” I lean over.

“You must. They know where you work and could be here any minute. So let’s hurry it up,” you whisper.

“Who are they, and what would they want with me?” 

“Oh is this your boyfriend?” Sally, a coworker asks.

“No!” we say in unison. 

“Sorry….shall I call security for you?” Sally looks at me with concern. 

I’m half tempted to let her have security come and take you out of here. 

“That’s not necessary,” I turn to you. “You have to leave now. If I just leave, I could get sacked. Then no more job, no more flat, no more roommate.” 

“If you get sacked we will work out the details. I can have Lestrade vouch for you. Now let’s go.”

“Do you understand if I lose my job, I have to move out?” It is like arguing with a petulant child. 

“No you won’t, we’ll work something out. However, if you stay, that won’t matter since you will most likely be dead.”

Something in your eyes and voice chills me - concern. 

“Fine,” I say and quickly grab my coat and bag. I look to Nancy, who has been watching with the keen interest of a predator. “Can you tell Charles I had an emergency?”

“Of course,” she preens herself while staring at you. 

Your hand presses against my back as you push me along. “You are moving too slow…”

We are not more than five feet from my desk when my computer explodes in a fireball. I watch my coworkers duck under their desks. I feel your arm brace me as I stumble a few steps. 

“Wha…” I cannot form words. I’ve lived with you for four months and had seen my share of oddities. 

You spin me to face you. “Are you okay?” You search my face. “Say something.”

“Something,” my voice sounds ethereal. When I can focus, I fix on your blue orbs. “What are you, Sherlock?”

* * * * * * * * *  
￼  
“What is he doing, dear?” my mum asks looking down at you on the sofa.

 “He’s in his mind palace,” I lead her to the kitchen.

 “Who keeps a microscope in their dining room?”

 “We do, apparently,” I offer her a chair. “Now keep your voice down. If he stirs, we’ll have to talk to him.”

 She looks around with a disapproving eye. I pray she does not go into the refrigerator.

 “Darling, it’s a lovely flat…or it could be. Why do you live here?” she whispers.

 “It’s close to work and the price was right. I’d be able to afford a shoe box elsewhere.”

 Now I understand why the price was just right – you. With another mate, this place would be twice as much.

 I see you drum your fingers together in annoyance.

 “What does he do?” mum asks.

 “He’s a consultant,” I simply say as I rummage for my purse.

 She eyes the harpoon in the corner and the skull on the mantle. “In what?”

 “Found it. Now we can go,” I move to the door. I see one blue eye peering at me. “C’mon mum, let’s go.”

 “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” mum is flustered.

 “Not today. Perhaps when he’s not working,” I attempt to usher her out before you open your other and followed by your mouth.

 You and my mum meeting is not high on my priority list. In fact, she was supposed to stay downstairs while I fetched my things. She insisted on seeing our flat.

 “What is a mind palace anyway? A form of meditation?” she asks as I sweep her out the door.

 “Sorry,” I mumble to you as I close the door.

 “I’m sorry, darling….but he really is an odd duck,” she clucks on the way downstairs.

 “You have no idea,” I mutter. 

* * * * * * * * *   
￼  
Sherlock

“That was…” John huffed.

“Extraordinary,” I smile.

Oh, how I missed times like these with John. It took a proper run through the streets of London to remind me of that. 

“Fancy some tea? I think we actually have some,” I say. 

“I’d love some,” John follows me upstairs. 

You aren’t home. In fact, you spend less time here lately since the incident. 

John nods as he looks around the flat. Obviously he approves of your homey touches and the fact that you are tidier than John and I ever were. 

“Very nice, Sherlock,” he smiles. “I see domesticity agrees with you.”

“John, what are you implying?” I raise an eyebrow.

There is that not-so secretive smile on his lips. “It looks nice. Your things are organized.”

“Yes, against my will,” I sigh. 

“How are things going with you two?” he sits in what is now your chair. “Any big blow ups?”

“No,” I move to the kitchen. “Oh, just her work computer.”

“What?” he twists around.

“Yes, it did not take long for my enemies to find out who she is and well - target her,” I say casually. 

“And she stayed?”

“She said the price was too good to pass up,” I put on the kettle. “I think it is my irresistible charm.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” John scoffs. 

“Very much so,” I take out two matching mugs - must be yours.

“Have you learned anything about her?” he asks.

I know exactly what he is hinting towards but I’m in no mood to play. Even if I tell him the truth, he won’t believe that there is nothing more than shared space between us. I gather he thinks I need a woman and that woman is you.

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Her mother talks too much, resulting in self-esteem issues. Add to that, the father issues,”

John rolls his eyes. “Now how do you know that?”

“The string of men she’s dated. A thumb-sucker, an alcoholic, a womanizer…..clearly she is looking for approval from a male,” I continue. “She works at company crunching numbers but does not excel at it. Otherwise she would not be sitting in a cubicle for she is rather smart. No, she’d rather write - and does that rather well. Granted not my genre, but sound story line and character development. She might be able to get it published if she ever stopped fishing about at work and shared it beyond her laptop.”

I move to retrieve the whistling kettle. 

“She let you read it?” John leans forward to call to the kitchen.

“Of course not, I found it on her computer one night.”

“What were you doing on hers? You have your own, I was with you when you bought it,” I hear the edge in his voice.

“Mine was in my room. Her room is closer,” I shrug. 

“You know, I never liked you using mine, but women like their privacy, Sherlock,” he says.

“Women want equality and I’m treating her no differently than I would treat you,” I explain.

My mind flashes to the night I found you on the stoop crying. Of course, I never found John in that state, but I’m sure I would have reacted the same. My stomach rumbles as I remember the look on your face. I hope you stop at the store for some crisps on your way home. 

* * * * * * * * * * *

Flatmate  
￼  
As I climb the stairs, I hear your voice - light and conversational. I think I hear you laugh, which is very odd indeed. It’s natural and not forced like most times.   
I open the door not sure what I’ll find. 

“John!” I smile.

“Hello,” he turns around. “I don’t think Sherlock was expecting you.”

You don’t look up from your paper. Leave it to you to read the news while you have company for dinner. 

“I thought I was going out after work, but that didn’t work out,” I lay my keys on the counter.

“New boyfriend stand you up?” you quip. Your eyes peer over the top of the newspaper.

“Sherlock!” John scolds.

I choose to ignore you. “John, how are things with you?”

“I’m well, thanks. I heard you had a bit of a scare the other day,” he says.

“Yes…well you know the perks of living with the great detective. Luckily, Lestrade was able to secure my job despite living with this lot,” I nod in your direction. 

“Good, I’m glad I was able to help,” you smile setting your paper down. 

“YOU didn’t help. I nearly got sacked until Lestrade stepped in,” I spit. 

“I did save your life.”

I notice a cut under your eye. “Sherlock, what happened to your eye? Did you get hit again?”

John chokes on his laughter. “It happens often, doesn’t it?”

You wince when you touch it. “Just a bullet grazing, all in a day’s work.”

I blame my maternal instinct for making me cross the room to you. “Have you had it looked at by someone?”

You motion to John. “The good doctor Watson patched me up.”

Concern washes over me and makes me feel dizzy. I don’t even realize that we are gazing at one another until John clears his throat. 

I move away. “That’s good then.”

“Would you like to join us?” John asks. “Did you make enough curry for three?”

“No. I didn’t expect you.” You shrug.

“It’s okay. I can get a take away,” I say. “I’ve had Sherlock’s curry before.”

You frown. “When? I’ve never made dinner for you.”

“Your leftovers,” I smile ducking my head out of the kitchen.

“You aren’t supposed to touch those,” I hear the dissension rise in your tone.

“And you aren’t meant to touch my computer, but you do,” I say breezily. 

I hear John chortle with satisfaction.


	5. Sheet Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is seeping into her skin.....

Flatmate

“I guess it’s going okay,” I lie back on my bed with the mobile to my ear. 

“You said the flat was amazing,” my old mate from university called from New York. 

“It is, a bit run down on the inside with some awful wallpaper. However, it’s very spacious, loads of light and it’s so close to work,” I say. “I’ve lost weight just walking to work.”

“That’s brilliant! How is that flatmate of yours? I know you said he was a bit odd,” she says.

“Odd doesn’t begin to describe it. Let’s add rude, tactless, emotionless, childish….,” I rattle off. 

“Oh, is that all?” she laughs.

“There’s more, I’m just looking through a thesaurus,” I say.

“Why are you staying if it’s that awful?”

“Location and rent. Mrs. Hudson is nice, though I am convinced she’s trying her hand at matchmaker along with John,” I roll my eyes.

“And John was the former roommate?”

“Yes, nice bloke. I can see why he had to leave. Sherlock drove him into the arms of a woman.” I thumb through my closet for my date tomorrow.

“Is Sherlock gay?” 

“I have no idea, I think he’s asexual. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s never kissed a girl or a boy for that matter,” I say. 

“You should drop your towel and see if it garners a look,” she suggests. 

“No, I’m not going to let him see me naked just to see if he’s gay. I really don’t care what or who Sherlock Holmes does,” I say defiantly. 

“Doth protest too much?” she asks.

“Are you mad? No! He gets under your skin like a chigger, annoying and irritating.” My cheeks are warm and flushed. “I can save up and get a place of my own and be rid of him. I just have to survive a few months.”

Outside my room, I hear the floorboards creak. Shit, did you hear all that? I thought you left hours ago.

* * * * * * * *  
￼  
I stopped as soon as I saw you in your sheet. Ah, Sheet Tuesday. For some reason I thought you might get dressed sometimes. You weren’t joking about it. It was my fourth Tuesday and still - just the sheet. 

“Have a productive day?” I asked as I walked into the flat. 

“Always,” you said not looking up from the computer screen. 

I stared at you for a moment, your fingers lightly tapped your lips as you worked out some problem. “Why a sheet on Tuesday?”

Your eyes shifted to me. “Are you sure you want to know?”

The heat in your gaze unsettled me. Slowly, you brushed aside the cotton swaddling to reveal your naked body. I was stunned stupid as my eyes slipped past your eyes and mouth down your toned torso….down even further. 

“What? I don’t,” I stammered.

Your cocked head to the side. “Really? You don’t know how much I want you?”

“This is so unlike you.” My heart was in my throat, I nearly choked on it. 

The sheet slipped off your shoulders when you stood. Oh shit, what are you going to do? I was paralyzed by fear and a slow burn that started in my stomach. 

You moved to me in two steps. Your eyes bore into me, and I felt your hands reach for my waist. 

“I need you." Your voice thick with passion that it almost shakes. You sounded vulnerable. 

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“Make me a better man,” you bent your lips to mine.

The fire alarm sounded. What? No one was cooking anything. It got louder and louder…..

My eyes fly open with my heart thundering in my chest. What just happened? I’m in my bed and I’m alone. The alarm is blaring at me to get ready for work. I feel so invaded by my dream. My dream of you - naked and wanting me. My hand slaps the alarm off, and I allow myself to fall back against the pillows. I’m safe, it was just dream. No, a nightmare. But why was I turned on in my dream? I shake my head of those thoughts. Best not to over think this one. 

Being that I’m late, I rush around my room. My morning shower will have to be skipped. I’ll need to get a sausage roll on the way to work. No time for tea.   
I come to a complete skid when I see you at your computer in your sheet. Of course, it has to be Tuesday. 

“You’re up early,” I falter.

You don’t look up. That’s fine, I don’t need you to deduce the wrong idea from my flushed face.

I grab my things and leave the flat in record time, welcoming the cool fall air outside. That’s it - no more curry before I go to bed. 

* * * * * * * * * *  
￼  
“Come look at this,” you call to me.

“Why?” I look up from my laptop. 

Usually, I have no problem writing in the living room while you work. Your classical music seems to soothe me thus opening my creative side. And I don’t mind you when you are being quiet and focused. It’s nice to share a still room with someone.

On occasion, I will see impatience mount as I tap away gleefully on my keyboard. Your shoulders hitch up, and your brow furrows when you send a glance my way. Sometimes, I ignore it just to piss you off. Most days, I retire to my room and leave you some peace. 

Today is the rare moment when you feel you need to show or teach me something. I will not admit to you that I’ve gotten much better at reading people just from your example. I have thought about bringing some of my more vile acquaintances around just to watch them toil under your dissection. 

“I want to see if this looks familiar to you,” you say. 

“I’ve told you that I barely got a passing mark in most sciences at school. I avoided them at all cost at Uni,” but I get up anyway since you’ll just keep demanding I go over there. “Unlike John, I cannot help you solve crimes.”

“This is about your case,” you push back from the microscope. 

“The bombing at my office?” I ask.

I tried to forget about that. Somehow, I managed to secure a promotion and my own office. I think it is because everyone is afraid to sit next to me. In fact, no one bothers to stop by my office anymore - it’s brilliant. I would have bombed myself years ago.

“Do you know what those fibers are?” you ask.

I peer through the microscope and it’s all Japanese to me, but if I don’t guess you will just pester me until I do. 

“It looks like steel thread or some kind of metal,” I shrug.

“Precisely. If you look closer, you will see some tread like a tire. But who in your office would have bits of a tire stuck to their shoe?” 

“Someone who had a tire blow out or walked along a highway,” I shrug again. 

You look directly at me. “That’s actually good. Do you know of anyone in your office that has had a car issue with a tire or caused them to be stranded on a roadside?”

“I really ignore much of the chatter around me,” I say. “You should know about that.”

“It might appear that way, but I’m always listening,” your eyes hold on me. 

Bugger, I knew you must have heard me on the phone a few nights ago. I wasn’t sure; you have been your usual chilly self - nothing out of the ordinary. But I catch a slight edge to your voice that belies….emotion? 

“Then I guess I should take a cue from you and be more observant,” I mutter. 

“Perhaps,” your gaze lingers on me as if I’m puzzle you are trying to solve.

I hate it when you look at me like that because my worst fears come to the surface. My odd dream, my conversations, my general unease in your presence. When we aren’t talking, it is the one moment I feel on equal footing. Otherwise, I feel a bit stupid and annoyed. 

“There are not many clues pointing to which of the many enemies could be responsible for this. They were clean if not effective,” you take your chair again. 

I wince knowing effective would have me dead. “Why would they think to kill me to get to you?”

“They target people close to me. Mrs. Hudson, John….”

I laugh. “Oh, I do not presume to ascend to the importance of John in your life. I don’t think anyone could.”

You frown. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. No one’s counsel or presence means more than John. I know if he walked through this door wanting his old room back, I’d be on the street tonight.”

“Nonsense,” you sigh. “I’d give you money for a hotel.”

* * * * * * *  
￼  
“Who was that at the door?” I call when you walk by my room. 

“It was the thumb sucker,” you duck your head in. 

“Brian? What did he want?” my forehead wrinkles. 

“To speak with you. It would appear your phone is broken as you were not answering his calls or texts,” you shrug. I can see a smile in your eyes. 

“Shame when that happens. Or I was just ignoring the git,” I shrug casually. “Why didn’t you tell me he was here? I could have told him off myself.”

I am a bit dismayed that you didn’t allow me the honour of shoving him out the door. 

“He was in no state. I’d say he started drinking around half two and it’s now,” you look at your watch, “nine at night. He started with beer then quickly moved to whiskey and gin. Things became ugly quickly.” 

Your tone was crisp and cool. 

“What happened?” 

“Oh, I shook his hand and made him cry. He won’t be bothering you again,” you nod. 

I wonder what you could have done to make him cry. Was it physical or verbal? I know the later can be just as scathing. 

“I wish I could have seen that,” I chuckle. 

“You would just regret your decision to have sex with him,” you say. 

Ah, there’s the Sherlock I know. 

“That would be too late,” I add. 

There is that uncomfortable silence when a conversation ends and neither of us knows how to leave things gracefully. 

“Well, I’m off,” you announce.

“At this time of night. Good God, where to?”

“I’ve a security guard to visit at the museum.” Your eyebrows raise. “Care to join me?”

I cannot think of anything I could offer, unlike John. Unless I am to distract the guard somehow. 

“I have to work tomorrow. Remember, I have that promotion to live up to,” I say. 

“Of course,” you nod and disappear. 

“Oh Sherlock!” I call. 

Your head reappears. 

“Thank you,” my voice is a bit tenderer than I planned. 

You wink and smile before you disappear again. 

* * * * * * * * * *   
￼  
I could live with you for a thousand years (let’s hope that’s not the case) and never really understand anything you do; from bed sheet Tuesday to walking on the furniture instead of around it. I learned early on to not touch your things, especially when it pertains to work. 

You will ignore me for days, then I’ll come out one Saturday morning to find a plate with a muffin and jam next to my chair. 

“It’s for you,” you will say and return to playing the violin. 

“Is there poison in it? John told me about that,” I look for traces of powder. 

You chuckle lightly. “I’ve done nothing more than spread jam on some bread. The date of the jam may be questionable, but you like to live on the edge.”

The playful tone relaxes my resolve to eat your offering, but makes me wonder your intent. 

You still sneak your laundry in with mine and pretend to not notice that your refugee clothes are piled on your bed. 

It will always fascinate me how your brief moments of warmth and lightness can ice over within seconds - like a shield encasing you. I wonder what you are hiding in there.


	6. Iceman Cometh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting Mycroft and Irene for the first time.....

Flatmate 

“You don’t seem surprised to meet me,” he says with all the coolness of Antarctica. 

“John and Sherlock warned me this was inevitable,” I have no idea why he chose an empty parking garage. Maybe I have to work my way up to the posh club where John meets with him. 

“Ah yes, John and Sherlock. Such a cute couple, aren’t they?” he smiles. 

“I guess that they are,” I shift my weight. It’s cold in here and I just want to go home.

“So you are the new flatmate,” I feel his eyes walk over me, dissecting me the way you do. It must run in the family.

“And you are the Iceman Cometh - the brother,” I say. 

He smiles but there is no joy in his eyes. “So Sherlock has talked about me.”

“No, it was John. Sherlock told me to ignore you unless you offered money.”

“Ah, my darling brother. Unfortunately, I need to make the people in my brother’s life my business,” he leans against his umbrella looking every bit like the enemy you said he was. 

“I’m not in his life. I’m just under the same roof. We aren’t buddies or pals,” I fail to see how living with you has become so weird and complicated. For someone who knows not a stitch about me, you have seeped into my life without an invitation - and it’s not coming from you directly. 

“An attempt was made on your life, dear. And I dare say that it will not be the last. You are involved whether you like it or not,” this time there is a hint of joy in his eyes. 

“I don’t want any part in your strange game of cloak and daggers. I just want a warm place to sleep and a roof over my head. I just want to save up to buy a place of my own, and living with Sherlock is just a step above moving back to my mum’s house,” I explain. 

I wonder if this still remains true. However, even with all your quirkiness and danger, I couldn’t bear my mum’s meddling. 

My phone buzzes. I look down to see a text from you. 

Is he bothering you? - SH

I sigh.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“I need you to keep an eye on him. He has a way of getting into trouble,” concern slips into his voice.

“He’s done fine for 30 something years. I doubt that I can protect him from anything. I know he’d never let me,” I shrug.

“He’s had John, who has done remarkable things for him. I need you to continue his journey,” he states.

“Journey? And John hasn’t gone anywhere.”

“He has Mary now, so Sherlock is not his first priority.”

“He’s not mine either,” I cross my arms.

I know you would recoil hearing Mycroft saying this about you. Or maybe you’d simply shrug with disinterest like with most things. 

He can go on, can’t he? - SH

Must be in the genes - 

His eyebrows raise in amusement. “Is that him?”

“What do you think?” I slip my phone back into my pocket.

“Just keep an eye out, help him if you see fit,” he nods. “I won’t keep you any longer.”

I watch him turn away. “And what journey?” 

“To his heart, to become human,” he gives me one last once over before walking away. 

My phone buzzes again.

Clever. Bring milk - SH

What have I gotten myself into?

* * * * * * * * * * *

￼￼￼￼  
The flat is dim when I open the door. I could smell the fire from outside. I thought it was Mrs. Hudson, but our flat illuminates in an ethereal glow. I spy two figures seated in front of it.

You and a woman - in your blue robe. 

I am frozen where I stand, my breath holding. You face her as she is curled up like a snake in the opposite chair, my chair. 

She unfurls and moves to you, yet you don’t flinch. I’d swear I had been drinking tonight or drugged by the scene that plays out before me.   
The space between her and you shrinks until you are inches from one another. To say I’m shocked would be a gross understatement. She places her hand on yours and your fingers wrap around her wrist as she speaks lowly in your ear. Your head bends to hear her. 

I shift my weight to leave, and the floorboard creaks. Shit.

Your head whips in my direction, and she scurries back to my chair. 

I am very thankful the room is so dark so that you cannot see my face turn scarlet. 

“Lucy,” you say. 

“I’m sorry, I had no idea you were entertaining,” I stammer and take a step backwards. 

Her eyes turn to me. “This is her?”

“I’ll leave you alone,” I turn and nearly plow into the still opened door. I don’t even think to go to my room, I just need to get out. 

I hear your footsteps behind me, but I’m running down the stairs as fast as my legs will carry me. All the while, trying to look casual. 

“Lucy!” your voice follows me to the front door.

I resist the urge to look back. I know this looks strange, my running away like this, but I need to process what I just saw. Mycroft said you were on some kind of journey to be human, whatever that meant. Seeing you with a woman was the most human thing I’ve seen you do.   
I’m halfway down the block when I realize that you called my name - twice. When was the last time you addressed me?

* * * * * * * * * * *

Sherlock

Normally, I would hear the doorknob turn, the creak of the door. Normally, I would hear your footsteps on the stairs and would know your mood by the sound of them. Not tonight. 

I hear the groan of wood under your weight. She moves away as if guilty. I can only see your face in the flickering light of the fire. What I do see is the white of your eyes. Your mouth is slightly agape as your body turns to flee.

Why do you leave the flat?

“Lucy,” I say in voice that doesn’t sound like mine - it’s too soft. 

“I’m sorry,” your voice falters, “I had no idea you were entertaining.”

“This is her?” Her voice drips of amusement.

“I’ll leave you alone,” you say with a nod as you dart out the door. You narrowly miss colliding with the door in your haste. 

Why are you running?

I run to the door and call for you again. “Lucy!”

The door slams shut and you’re gone. I wait at the top of the stairs to see if you will return. Perhaps your head has cleared. Nothing. 

“Is everything all right dear?” Mrs. Hudson calls up.

“It’s fine Mrs. Hudson, go back to bed,” I close the door behind me. 

She raises an eyebrow. “Lucy? I thought she was just a flatmate.”

“She is,” I take my seat again and stare into the fire as I attempt to process the last five minutes. 

“It seems a bit more complicated,” she purrs.

I frown. “What would give you that idea?”

“She ran away and you followed. That sounds complicated.”

I look from her to the fire again. I would have done the same thing for John. But would he have run away?

I remove my jacket, the room is stuffy from the fire. 

I wish I could have seen your face as it is always a mirror to the soul and perhaps the heart. 

“It’s too bad, things could have been different for us,” her voice is sullen.

“Different?” I’m annoyed that she is distracting me from my thoughts.

“Did I ruin things between us when I left?” 

“There was nothing but a game between us,” I say simply.

“Sherlock, you know better. You took my pulse, as I took yours,” she smiles. Slowly it fades to sadness. “It was different tonight. I wonder what it is now since you saw her?”

“Nonsense Ms. Adler. She lives under the same roof. I have the same concern for her as I do John,” I look at my phone. 

“Yes, but she’s a bit softer than John. Little more pleasing to the eye,” her lips curl again. 

I look at her again, eye dilated and darting. Her chest rising quickly, nostrils flaring. 

“Are you jealous?” 

“According to you, I have no reason to be, right? I still have your interest, don’t I Sherlock?” she crosses her legs, clearly just to give me a view of something salacious and enticing. 

I smirk. “You are THE Woman, right?”

A satisfied smile spreads on her face. “I’m drawing a bath.” 

Her hand runs along my arm as she passes. “I hope you will join me.”

I do not acknowledge her invitation as I know she doesn’t expect me to accept it. 

I look to my phone again and flip to my texts. Logic tells me why you would leave, but without getting a clear view of your face, I can’t be sure. You’ve never displayed any inkling of deeper emotion other than repulsion some days. I could not have been reading you wrong all this time. What is clouding my mind? Is it her? 

My fingers hover over the buttons. 

Are you okay? - SH  
￼￼  
* * * * * * * * * *

Lucy

“He called me,” John says. “I think he’s worried about you. How many days has it been?”

“I’ve been home. I just haven’t seen him,” I shrug casually. 

“Then how many days since you’ve seen him?” he asks as we walk along.

“I guess about five.” I think back to that night. You in a passionate embrace with a woman - it was the most unnatural thing I’ve ever seen. 

“He asked where you’ve been.” I feel his scrutinizing eyes all over me looking for clues. Maybe planting a few of his own.

I get the impression that everyone in your world would have us coupled - nice and tidy. I can’t think of anything more absurd. 

“I was staying with a friend. He knows that,” I say.

“He said you haven’t spoken to him.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s pretty rich coming from him, don’t you think? It’s all well and good when he decides to be quiet for a week."

He smiles knowingly. 

“We’ve texted,” I hand him the phone. “Here. See for yourself.”

Are you okay - SH

Fine. Giving you space like a good roomie does - L

When are you coming back? We’re out of tea - SH

It’s been two days. Shall I call the police? - SH

It’s been three days. Should I post an advert for the room? - SH

I’ve been home, you failed to notice. At a friends house for a few - L

Day 5, we are still out of tea - SH

John shakes his head. “Typical Sherlock.” He looks at me. “So what is this all about?”

“I walked in on Sherlock and a woman. It was the strangest thing I’ve ever seen,” I shrug. 

“What were they doing?” his forehead wrinkles. 

“It looked like a proper snog.”

He stops. “Sherlock snogging? That’s impossible.”

“I know what I saw, John. It was not platonic. She was wearing his blue robe,” I say. “Who is she?”

He rubs his forehead and looks nervous. “Did she have long brown hair, perhaps in a bun?”

“What I could see, she had brown hair. It was dark, just a cozy fire lighting the room,” I say. His reaction has me worried. “Is he in danger?”

“I don’t know.” His brow creases further. “She is THE Woman, or Irene Adler. A past acquaintance of Sherlock’s.”

“She looked more than an acquaintance,” I muse. 

“Yes, well…” his voice and gaze trail off. 

“You don’t like her,” I muse. 

“I don’t trust her,” he says bitterly. 

“Then maybe I should not have left him alone.”

“It’s not your job to look after him, no matter what Mycroft says,” John sighs.

“It just sort of happens, doesn’t it?” I tap away on my phone. 

I’ll be home tonight. Will bring tea - L

“Where have you been?” John asks.

I feel my face warm. “With a friend. I’ve been seeing a lot of him lately.”

“Oh.” This surprises John as he was so convinced I was falling for you. “Is it…serious?”

“I don’t know. It could be,” I shrug. 

My phone buzzes and we both look down. 

Good. I’m desperate for a cup - SH

* * * * * * * * 

Lucy  
￼  
“Welcome home,” you say the moment I step in the house. “Have you brought the tea?”

I wish I could I say that I forgot it just to watch you roll your eyes. “I did.”

You are plucking away mindlessly at your violin. I’ll admit that I have missed your playing. But that is about it. 

I move to the kitchen to get the kettle on and replace the milk. As I suspected, you have not tossed the sour milk from the refrigerator. 

“Is your house guest still here?” I ask. “Would she like a cup?”

You turn your head. “She is not.”

“Then just two cups will do,” I pull them from the cupboard. I see a slight smile on your lips.

“How was your holiday?” you ask.

“Do you really care?” I raise an eyebrow.

“No, but it seemed like the thing to ask,” you shrug. 

“It was fine. Where is your lady friend?”

You roll your eyes. “She’s not my lady friend. As I’m sure John told you, she was a client that needed help.”

“Looks like she helped herself, all right,” I mutter. 

You chuckle lightly but do not answer. I decide to let it lie before you deduce something incorrect. I bring out the tea and some biscuits. 

“Wonderful, you brought biscuits!” you place your violin beside you. 

“Did you miss me, Sherlock?” I tease.

“I missed your shopping. And your tea is not bad either,” I sense rare warmth in your voice. 

We never discuss Irene, though I know she’s nearby. Later that evening while I write and you are in your mind palace, I hear a strange moan come from your phone. Your eyes dart to me quickly, before fetching your phone. Over the screen of my laptop, I see you read it quickly but do not answer. I cannot read your face as you close your eyes and fold your hands again.

I wonder if I’ll ever get the real story. But we aren’t girlfriends who chat about out lovers over tea. It’s such a silly idea that I chuckle to myself.   
My chair still smells of her musk.


	7. Deducing the flatmate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy has a new beau....

Lucy

“What are you eating?” I feel my heart leap to my throat.

“Cake,” you say. 

“Sherlock,” I groan. “Not the cake I specifically labelled ‘DO NOT TOUCH OR LOOK AT, SHERLOCK HOLMES’?”

“What other cake was there in the kitchen? In fact, had you made another, I would have never touched the first,” you simply say. 

I jump from my chair. “I made that for my mum for her birthday. I know you know how to read.”

I run to the kitchen to a rather large piece missing from the chocolate cake I slaved over for most of the day. 

“For God’s sake. I never see you eat. I didn’t even think you liked sweets,” I sigh with exasperation.

“No, I quite like sweets. Not sure where you got that idea,” you drink milk directly from the carton. 

“Do you never use a glass?” 

“If I use a glass, I make it dirty and that vexes you so,” you say.

“Only when you don’t wash it,” I snipe.

“Right, which I never do. Therefore, I removed the middle man,” you smile. 

“I do drink that milk, you know,” I think I may need to retreat to my room before I throttle you. 

You really have no concept of boundaries. I should be thankful that you have not barged in while I’m seating on the loo to brush your teeth or something equally ridiculous. 

“Since you just had to taste it, how was it?” I ask.

You pull a face. “A bit bitter actually. Perhaps too much cocoa. Made it a bit chalky.”

Of course you would say that. 

“Couldn’t have been that bad, you finished the slice,” I grumble. 

* * * * * * * * *

Lucy  
￼  
I’m hovering over a layout project on the living room floor. You’ve been silent all night - alternating between your laptop and your mind. I’m not even sure you know I’m here. 

“What’s that bruise?” you ask of out the blue. 

I freeze. “What bruise?”

“On your shoulder,” you lean forward. An amused smirk breaks on your face, but you frown. 

“I bumped into something,” I mutter knowing there is no escape from this.

“That something would be someone’s mouth for an extended time.”

Your fingers brush my collarbone without invitation. 

“What are you doing?” I flinch.

“It’s fascinating,” you crouch beside me. 

You touch the raised skin on my shoulder near the crook of my neck. Your touch is surprisingly warm for someone without a heart. 

“Stop it,” I hiss. 

“No, this is fun,” you chirp. “You’re new beau is roughly 180 cm with a medium sized mouth.”

I stand. “Sherlock, stop.”

You stand inches from me. “Based on the placement, he is right handed since he probably cradled your head with his dominant hand.” Your long fingers do the same, cradling my face. “Thus giving him access to the right side of your neck.” Your fingertips brush my love bite lightly. 

“Are you really analyzing my hickey?” I ask incredulously. 

Gazing up, you are totally engaged with your pupils dilated and nostrils flaring. 

“I have no case right now, so as sad as it may be, this is what I have,” you say. 

I move away. There is a strange musk rolling off you and it’s disturbing. 

“Find something else. Go analyze John and Mary.”

“Are you not amazed? John used to find this fascinating,” you proclaim.

“I’ll give you that it was incredible when you knew that I was an only child. Or even the fact that my mother was the oldest of three girls and my father the middle child." 

You clench your fist. "I think you were the eldest at first."

“However,” I raise my voice to get your attention again. “My love life is off limits to your deducing and dismantling. If you do it, keep it to yourself.”

You slide your hands in your pocket as we stare at one another in a showdown. Your lips twitch in a way I’ve never seen before. 

“I’m sorry. I meant no harm,” you nod and return to your chair. 

I feel like I’ve yelled at a child looking at your pout. I have to remind myself that in matters of emotion, I am dealing with an immature genius. It’s a long road to make you human with feelings you understand and know how to use.

I start to collect my things. “I’ll finish in my room.”

“No,” you interrupt. “Continue here, there is more room. I’ll leave.”

With flare, you throw your coat over your shoulders and grab your scarf. 

“Where are you going at this hour?” I ask.

“To find trouble,” you announce.

“Don’t get into too much. I haven’t enough bail money,” I muse.

Your lips twitch to a smile. “I know Lestrade will take care of me.”

“Yes he will,” I shake my head.

Something causes your eyes to narrow as you look at me. You search my face for a moment before turning to the door. 

“Don’t wait up,” you say.

“I never do,” I mutter. 

I wonder if you go to her on these late night patrols. 

* * * * * * * * 

Lucy  
￼  
I walk in to the flat and halt. Did you move out? Have we been robbed the cleanest, most contentious thieves? 

The books are in order. There are no loose papers lying about. I glance into the kitchen - no dishes on the counters or sink. 

Did you move out? I see your skull, violin and laptop still in their respective places. 

“Sherlock?” I call. 

No answer.

“Sherlock?” I start to panic.

“What’s all the bellowing?” 

I hear the toilet flush. 

“Oh, you’re back. I was starting to think you moved away,” you push by me to sit in your chair. 

“What happened here?” 

“I don’t know. What?” you look around.

“Sherlock, this flat has never been this clean. I once took a day off while you were in Glasgow to clean this hole, and I never got it this spotless,” I say. 

“I guess you didn’t try very hard,” you glance up.

“Did Mrs. Hudson do this?” I run my fingers over the furniture. Okay, there is still dust, but I’m not about to nitpick. 

“She started to help, but I told her that she was getting in my way,” you sigh. “I don’t like it when people touch my things. I tolerated John, and I just barely accept it when you do it.”

“I only move it out of the way lest it gets ruined,” I defend myself. “You did this. YOU…did this?”

“I did. I cleaned the entire flat,” you announce proudly. “It was oddly calming and I was able to solve a case while folding laundry.”

I choke out a laugh. The very image of you folding laundry like a household maid has me near giddy. 

“The entire flat, you say?” I ask.

“Are you hard of hearing? Yes, the entire square footage.”

That means my room. I rush to my room to find it tidied but not gleaming. The more shocking thing - my laundry - is neatly folded on my bed. Of course, you have separated all my things - even my danties. I turn violet. You’ve handled my knickers and bras. All that silk and lace. I wonder if you even noticed.

Also in its own pile, men’s undershorts. They aren’t yours, and I’m sure you’ve noticed as you do not wear boxers. Now you know some details on my sex life. Unless you think that he sneaks them in as well. 

“His build is like mine,” you comment in a tight voice. You are trying to force a playfulness, but I can tell when you force it. After six months, you are getting a little easier to sort out. 

I cock my head to the side. “I guess so. Maybe in the hips.”

You snort. “What do you know of my hips?”

“I’ve seen you in a towel, remember?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Will you be moving in with your new paramour? I’ll need to look for a new flatmate,” you reach for your violin.

“Trying to get rid of me? No, I am not moving in with him,” I say.

“Hope you’ve chosen better this time. The last one was vile,” you begin to play.

Yes Sherlock, I think you’d like this one. 

* * * * * * * * *

Sherlock  
￼￼￼  
“Where is the body?” I ask.

“Right in here,” Lestrade motions into an empty room in the drafty building. 

“Right,” I nod.

“Looks like strangulation,” he suggests. 

I stop to look at him. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

As I walk by, I catch a whiff of shaving gel from the morning, sport deodorant, soap and another familiar scent. I stop to breathe it in.

“What?” he asks.

“Are you wearing a new cologne?” I ask.

“No…”

I spot new trousers and shoes - someone new to impress. I know the missus moved out a few months ago, but there’s been no real finality to the marriage. Until recently, I expect that he’s been hopeful for a reconciliation. However, not now. What is that scent?

I walk to the body, who I should be concentrating on, but all I can smell is Lestrade. I am close to asking him to leave when he does - to hold off Anderson. I hear his annoying chatter in the hallway.

Is it Sally? No, Anderson smells like her. Molly? She smells of sweet roses and formaldehyde. Not her.

“What are you doing?” John whispers.

I blink. “What? I’m looking over the body.”

“No, you’re not. You’re distracted,” he says. “Is it Anderson? Is it the case?”

I look at the man face down on the floor. It reminds me of the Study in Pink case - minus all the pink. I start to inspect fingers, the neck, his clothes, the tread on his shoes.

“Is Lestrade seeing someone new?” I look up.

“What?” John frowns with his pen hovering over his notepad awaiting my instruction.

“Lestrade. Do you know if he has a new girlfriend?” Annoyance seeps into my voice. I thought I was perfectly clear.

“No, I don’t. What does it have to do with him?” he asks hunched over the body.

“Nothing at all. I was just wondering,” I shrug and rattle off my first impressions.

I am working on autopilot, but my mind is wandering elsewhere. I flick through my rolodex of scents stored in my brain. Faces flash in my mind.

“I sent Anderson out for coffee,” Lestrade announces.

The smell invades my thought process again as he hovers close to me.

“How are you and missus?” I ask. I see John’s face twist in my peripheral vision.  

“I think it’s really over,” he sighs. “So, was I right? Strangulation?”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions. These scars look post mortem. Look at the lack of red marks and bruising. The tissue was already dead,” I look up. “You did go to school for this, right?”

“Yes…I was going on Anderson’s first report,” he answers.

“That was your first mistake,” I roll my eyes. 

I inspect the body closer with my glass. That musk radiates off you so strong, I can’t concentrate. More faces flicker. Everything stops. A face flashes behind my eyes.

“And your second mistake,” I say lowly.

“What?” John asks. 

I straighten my back and take in Greg Lestrade. His height. His new clothes. The scent. I feel dizzy and John’s hands reach to steady me.

“Sherlock, are you okay?” he asks. 

“Everything okay?” Behind Lestrade’s eyes I see tension. 

I straighten my coat. “Yes, I’m fine.”

And I hope for the first time in my life that I’m wrong.

* * * * * * * * *  
￼  
Sherlock

“So, what’s wrong with you?” John asks.

“What do you mean? I’m fine,” I shrug.

“You’ve been distracted this whole case. That’s not who you are. The level of concentration you give each case is exhaustive. What’s different?” He is studying my face.

“It’s not a very challenging case and I get bored easily, you know that,” I sip my tea.

The diner we have chosen for me to watch John eat is the best cup of tea outside of yours. John returns to his curry unconvinced.

“Why do you think she won’t bring her boyfriend by?” I muse.

John looks up. “Who? Lucy?”

“Yes, who else would I be talking about? I frown. I really wish he’d follow along. I wonder if he listens most days.

“Perhaps it is you, Sherlock,” he smirks.

“Me?”

My attempt to get more clues and confirm my suspicions were unfruitful. You are a worthy opponent when it’s something you want to protect. I’ve never been able to get a clear reading on you unless your emotion is in anger or disgust. Lately, you’ve been very guarded around me. I actually entertained the notion that you had developed deeper feelings for me. I think I might have been wrong – you were hiding him.

“I wasn’t keen on introducing you to Mary. And I keep her from you as much as possible,” he stated simply.

“I have a theory,” I lean closer.

“This should be good,” he mutters and sets his fork down.

“I think her new beau is Lestrade,” I wait for his shock.

He laughs. “Greg? How on earth would that happen?”

“I’m not sure. Lestrade has been to the flat before,” I suggest. I’m struck by genius again. “How long ago was the bombing at her work?”

“I guess about two months ago.”

“That is when they first met,” I snap my fingers triumphantly. “That was right around the time the last one dumped her. Lestrade said that he and his wife have been separated for roughly two months.”

“Very astute,” John begins to eat again. “What does this matter?”

“Why didn’t I see this?” I think out loud.

“Probably because you didn’t care,” he suggests. “Since when do you pay attention to anything she does?”

I don’t like the look that crosses his face. He leans back in his chair with a smirk.

“Or do you care?” he asks. “I think you do. Is this jealousy I see before my eyes?”

I cock my head to the side. “You cannot be serious. I am merely interested in what this means to me.”

“Exactly. You know, green is very good colour for you. It brings out your eyes,” he teases.

“I like things tidy. My flatmate and DI Lestrade cavorting about in my living space makes me uncomfortable,” I snip.

“I doubt they’d use your room,” he goes back to eating.

My stomach turns. “Why wouldn’t she tell me?”

“Because of the reaction you are displaying now. It’s all about you. Not if he treats her well, or they get on fabulously. When I brought Mary by, it was ‘ that’s nice but how does it affect me?’,” he grumbles. “You rarely think about anyone else but yourself. It’s no surprise they were able to keep it from you.”

 “Well, we don’t know for sure,” I lie. “It could all be coincidence.”

He shrugs as he shovels food into his mouth. “I don’t know. You lay out a very probable scenario.”

“Christ, you sound like me now,” I scoff.

“Just ask her,” he looks directly at me. “No clever twists, just ask her if she’s seeing him.”

I wave my hand dismissively. “What does it matter to me? As long as I don’t have to see him in her dressing gown. That would be awkward.”

“Maybe they’ll invite you to the wedding.” John can be a cheeky bastard sometimes.

Perhaps I need to air this all out so I can concentrate on my case. Perhaps after John and mine’s trip to Wales. 


	8. Grenade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who's in the shower? And why is Sherlock playing with bombs?

Sherlock

“It was very clear to me that she was guilty,” I sigh walking up the stairs to the flat. “How could you not see it? Have you learned nothing from me?”

“I found her multiple personalities very convincing,” he says. 

“Tut. John, please tell me that you were not dazzled by her plunging neckline,” I scoff.

“Sherlock, you noticed,” he smiled. “Now I am impressed.”

“Please. I do not fall for those tactics. After living with a woman, one gets immune to some exposed flesh.” After all, you seem to have no issue with cavorting about in a towel. 

The flat looks undisturbed and I’ve figured that you’re off with your ‘boyfriend’. In the days before I left for Wales, I never could confirm that Lestrade was that man. 

“Guess Lucy’s not home,” John says to get a rise from me. 

I peel off my gloves and sniff the air. You were here, and you weren’t alone. I hear the shower running, then turn off. From behind the door, a man hums.

“Maybe Lucy is here,” John raises his eyebrows.

I look the coat rack. “Her coat and purse are not here. No, she would be just walking into work.”

John sends me a curious glance.

“Remember, I followed her when I knew her life was at risk.”

The doorknob turns, and both John and I hold still. Wearing nothing but a towel, Greg Lestrade steps into my hallway with a plume of steam behind him. He freezes. 

“We can see you, Detective,” I say.

“I thought you weren’t due home until tomorrow,” he says. 

John’s mouth drops open. “You were right. Well, I’ll be.”

For a moment, I’m furious that you’ve left a detective alone in my house. He could have searched anywhere and found something. How could you be so careless?

I clasp my hands behind my back. “So…Greg. How long has THIS been going on?”

“You mean my relationship with Lucy?” he asks.

I look away. “Can you please get some clothes on? That is my towel.”

“This coming from you? How many video conferences did I have to endure on Nude Tuesday?” he retorts. 

“I wear a sheet,” I snap. 

“I have to be at the station soon anyway. As for how long I’ve been seeing Lucy, it’s been about two months. And not that you’ve asked, but they have been the best two months I’ve had in a long time. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you, but we were worried that you’d, you know, freak out,” he says. 

The way he refers to ‘we’ irks me. He goes to your room to dress. That’s where he was last night, in your room, in your bed. I glance at the couch and look for any unusual indents. 

“Are you okay?” John eyes me carefully. 

“It’s a bit odd…us sharing Lestrade,” I say.

“Or sharing Lucy,” he offers. 

I look at John. We’ve been friends for a long time, and sometimes he knows me better than I know myself. 

“I’ll be back,” I say and sweep out the door without my gloves. 

* * * * * * * 

Sherlock  
￼￼  
My arm is sore from bludgeoning this poor soul. I wipe the sweat from my brow and look up to see Molly gawking at my actions. She’s seen me work a corpse before. Why is she in shock?

“Are you okay?” she asks cautiously. 

“I’m fine,” I button my coat. 

“Well Sherlock. I’ve never seen you beat a dead man with such zeal,” Lestrade strolls in, dressed this time.

“I take my work seriously, and thank you for putting on trousers,” I say coolly. 

He chooses to ignore the last comment while Molly’s brow wrinkles. 

“Is this how it going to be now?” Lestrade pulls up his trousers in a show of manly force.

I smile. “Perhaps, if you keep turning up in my flat naked.”

Molly’s head whips from him to me. “Excuse me….what exactly is going on with you two?”

“She said you were gone for a few days,” he runs his hand through his hair. “Look, I know this is awkward, you know, my being with her.”

“Just when you use my bath towel,” I peer over the body. I fail to see why you fancy him. The grey hair, sour look on his face. Yet there must be something in him you like - but it’s lost on me at the moment. 

“Who is ‘she’? Who is ‘her’?” Molly asks, almost frantic. 

“My girlfriend.” “My flatmate.” We say in discordant unison. 

My stomach sours at the term ‘girlfriend’. It sounds so childish and regular - not a word I’d use to define you.

I hear a gasp. By the look on poor Molly’s face, Lestrade and I both broke her heart. 

* * * * * * * *  
￼  
Lucy

I pick up my work phone. “Lucy.”

“Sherlock’s home. He caught me coming out of the shower,” Greg says.  
   
I lean back in my chair. “That was bound to happen, we were being careless. What did he do?”

“He made fun of me and grumbled that I was in his towel,” he says.

I chuckle as I imagine the expression on your face. I almost wish I was there - almost. 

“I guess there’s no need to sneak around,” I say. 

My phone buzzes.  
￼  
Next time you will have to hang a bra on the door knob - SH

I smirk.

“I don’t think I could stay there knowing he was in the next room,” Greg says. “It’s a bit too creepy.”

Are you sure you would know what that is, and not a double slingshot - L

I am familiar with lady undergarments -SH

“Afraid he’ll deduce our lovemaking?” I tease. “You can be a bit vocal.”

“He’ll decide to discuss that at the perfectly wrong moment,” he shudders.

That’s right - Ms. Adler - L

What makes you think it is her? Remember, I’ve done your wash - SH

“Then, we’ll go to your house,” I say.  
   
“That’s best. Sherlock and I should not mix our privates lives,” his voice is tight. 

“I agree.”

I knew I was missing some delicate items - L

All in the name of detective work, I promise - SH

I can feel your smile through the phone. 

Mr. Holmes, are you being inappropriate with me? - L

“I filed for divorce today,” Greg announces.

I drop my mobile. 

* * * * * * * *

Lucy  
￼  
“Oh, hello John,” I say. 

“Lucy,” he nods.

You don goggles and mix a bucket of something that looks like paste. 

“That’s an interesting case you have there,” I chuckle. 

You just stare at me and mix. I nod and head to my room. It was a warm day for autumn and I think I’d like to take a run. 

My room is covered in plastic tarps - my bed, dressers, floors. Beside my bed sits a can of new paint, close to the blue that covers my walls. Why would you want to repaint my…and then I see it. There is a whole the size of two footballs my ceiling. Now I can see your bedroom. 

It looks as though you have cleaned up the crumbled plaster from my floor. And clearly you are intending to fix this.  
 No matter - I’m still irate.

 “Sherlock! What in bollocks name happened in here?” I shout.

 “I’d say she did notice,” John says calmly.

 “Bit of mishap with a decommissioned grenade,” you shrug casually as you mix what I gather to be plaster for my wall.

 “Why would you be playing with that inside?” I ask.

 “Would you suggest I go to a park where children play? That seems very irresponsible,” you say dismissively. “And I was not ‘playing’.”

“I’d rather you not blow Mrs. Hudson and yourself to bits.”

 You smile and I want to slap you.

 “So, you DO care.”

 “Well, I can see that you still have both arms.” I cross my arms and raise an eyebrow. “For now.”

John clears his throat and sends you a message with his eyes.

You, in turn, roll your eyes. “I apologise for putting a huge hole in your wall and will be patching it up presently.” You say it so fast, it comes out as one long word.

“Right. That was heart felt. It looks I will be spending the night at Greg’s until you fix this mess,” I say sourly.

You roll your eyes harder. “You’re there more than here most nights.”

“I thought that made me the prefect roommate. Someone who pays the bills but is never here.”

“That’s all well and good until we run out of something,” you say haughtily.

You will never admit that you actually miss my company. I bet you still watch X Factor without me. 


	9. The Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock asks Lucy for assistance

Lucy

You stop playing the violin and stare at me until I look up from my laptop. 

“Yes?”

Laying the violin across your lap, you fold your hands on top. “I need your assistance.”

“Usually you just ask if I fancy a cup and stare at me to fetch one.”

You lean the violin against the chair. “Yes, and yet you never do. No, I need your help on a case.”

Now, I am shocked. “My help? Is John not speaking to you again?”

“Mary IS a terrible cook. Was I supposed to lie?”

“Can you sometimes pretend to be someone else?” I ask remembering how the evening ended quickly after Mary foolishly asked you if you liked the roast.

I blame John a little for not properly briefing her, but she’s met you before. She should have known better.

“Why would I want to do that?” Your eyebrows knit together. 

“No reason,” I sigh. Just when I think you might grow a heart or at least some compassion, I am reminded of who you are. “Why aren’t you going to your guy Friday?”

“What does that mean?” You shake your head as I open my mouth to explain. “Never mind. I don’t care. John cannot offer me this kind of assistance.” 

“Okay, I’m intrigued,” I lean forward.

Your lips twitch into a smile. “I have acquired an invitation to a social event that requires that I am accompanied by a female.”

I frown. “This is for a case? Why not ask Irene?”

“I don’t trust Ms. Adler,” you say. 

Deep down, it delights me that I have your trust over her.

“What is this social gathering?”

You look as if you sniffed something foul. “It is a ball and I cannot turn up solo.”

“Aw, will all the girls will tease you?” I snicker.

“This is for your case,” you state abruptly. “I do not wish to attend such a foolish event, but whomever wants to hurt you is still out there. They will not care that you sleep beside Lestrade, or me.”

There is a bite in your voice. Your once sparkling eyes have darkened. What do you mean ‘sleep beside you’? You could not mean….

“Will you attend with me?” You ask.

I may regret this, but it is for my safety. I haven’t told you about the email I received last week as you will surely hack into my account and see my emails to Greg and others. But you are Sherlock and you might have done so already.

“When is it?”

“This Friday evening. It’s formal so you will need to fix yourself up a bit,” you pick up your violin to play.

I lean forward. “That goes double for you, Holmes.”

You ignore that remark and return your bow to the strings. Your once melancholy tune has brightened a bit, and I swear I spy the hint of a grin.  
An evening out with Sherlock Holmes.

Do I tell Greg?

* * * * * * * * * *

Sherlock

￼￼  
I glance at my watch, how long can it take for a woman to get ready? John would toss on a coat and be ready to go. Perhaps asking you was a mistake if we miss our chance because you were powdering your nose.

I cross and uncross my legs listening to the shower, the hair dryer and other instruments of torture. Strange scents escape the bathroom. Really, how hard is it to put a dress on and comb your hair?

“I’ve the post,” Mrs. Hudson bustles in.

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson. Just leave it on the table. Unless one of them is ticking,” I say.

“Oh Sherlock,” she chuckles.

I don’t see what was funny about that.

Finally, your door opens.

“Oh my dear, you look ravishing,” she gasps.

I turn my head and barely recognise you. Your hair is pulled up revealing a rather swan- like neck. I know you run, but the length of your dress showcases the strong calf muscles. The three inch heels help, of course.

“Can you run in those?” I ask.

“Will I need to?” You look down.

“You never know.”

“Where are you off to tonight?” Mrs. Hudson asks.

“We are going to the Nottingham Ball,” you say.

Mrs. Hudson looks from me to you. “You both? Together?”

“Yes,” I stand.

“I thought you were seeing that nice inspector, Lucy.” Mrs. Hudson looks concerned.

“I am. I’m just helping Sherlock tonight. It’s just work,” you say.

“A ball,” she sighs. “Is that what you are wearing?”

I think she’s talking to you but realise that her eyes are on me. “I’m in a suit.”

“You always wear a suit, dear. It’s a special occasion. Look, Lucy has dressed up for you,” she says.

“Oh no Mrs. Hudson….I’m not dressed for him. I’m trying to fit in,” you say hastily.

“Wear a tie at least, Sherlock. How often do you attend these?” She pleads.

“Never and for a reason,” I grab my coat from the rack. “Are you finally ready?”

“Yes,” you say.

“Oh do be a gentleman and help Lucy with her coat,” she presses.

“I’m quite capable of putting on my coat,” you protest.

Mrs. Hudson crosses her arms expectantly. As you look at me, I shrug on my defeat. I can drop the pretense once we are out the door. Taking the rather flimsy shawl from your hands, I wrap it around your bare shoulders. A light floral scent mixes with your musk. I take a deep breath and hold it for a moment.

“Are you sure you won’t wear a tie?” Mrs. Hudson pouts.

“Quite,” I drop a kiss on her cheek. “Have a good night.”

As I follow you down the stairs and hall, I’m fascinated by the curve of your neck and your incredibly low hair line. Little golden hairs wisp out of the comb placed rather carefully on your hair. Usually, you wear your hair in a high ponytail despite my informing you that you are too old for that style. Tonight, you look age appropriate.

“Stop picking me apart in your head,” you call over your shoulder, pushing through the front door into the night.

That is the very last thing going through my head.

* * * * * * * *  
￼￼￼￼  
Lucy

You watch everyone walk by us at the ball, deducing every guest. I remain quiet since I was harshly shushed the moment I opened my mouth. I was only commenting that it was a lovely room. I wish that I was enjoying it with some that could appreciate beauty, the music, the fact that this ball benefits your friends in the homeless network.

Instead, you squint and sniff. Your eyes dart as you slowly walk around the room and I follow. So far, I cannot for the life of me figure what I’m doing here. I guess to make you appear normal. 

Suddenly, you take a step towards me. “I suppose that we should dance.”

A laugh bursts from my mouth. “What?”

You frown. “What? Are we not at a ball?”

“You? Dance? You realise that you have to touch me, correct?” I say. 

“I am familiar with the mechanics of dancing,” you lean close.”We are being watched. So unless you want to run in those heels and pretty dress, please dance with me?”

I nod numbly as you extend your hand to me. I’ve had one glass of champagne, much to your chagrin, but I would swear someone slipped something in it. This is the most surreal moment in my life. 

Dutifully, I slip my hand in yours - surprised by its warmth. Your other arm wraps around my waist pulling me closer. For as lithe as you appear, you are solid under my hands. You move us deftly across the floor with a grace I would have never suspected. 

“What?” you peer down at me.

“Where did you learn to dance so well?” I ask.

A grin pulls at the corner of your mouth. “School, of course. You are a better dancer than Mycroft.”

“That’s a relief,” I smile.

“And you let me lead.”

I feel you pull me closer. My eyes scan the crowd for anyone watching us, any reason you are compelled to press me to you. Clearly, I’m an amateur since I see nothing but couples curled together - like us.

Your breath tickles my nose, and I’m terrified to look up. What if I see something - anything in your eyes? Through your suit, I feel the beating of your heart against me. God, do you feel mine? Why is this exciting? Is it the danger? It must be the danger. 

“Have you danced with Lestrade?” your rich baritone vibrates against me. 

I’m forced to look up. “No, the occasion has never risen.”

Your face softens. “Shame. You are an adequate dancer.”

“Aren’t you full of compliments tonight,” I tease.

Delight flashes in your indigo eyes. I resist the overwhelming urge to brush an errant curl off your forehead. 

“Lucy,” you breathe.

“Yes Sherlock,” I watch those full lips inch closer.

“All clear. Let’s get to work.”

I feel a cool rush of air around me as you step away. With your hand wrapped firmly around mine, you pull me into a hallway. I just realise that we’ve crossed the dance floor. My head spins a little as we quickly move down the hall to a staircase.

“Hurry,” you give me a tug. 

We practically run up the stairs, and now I know why you asked if I could run in these heels. 

* * * * * * * * *

Sherlock  
￼￼￼  
I see recognition strike his eyes as we walk by. He’s followed us while we skirt the dance floor. I have never seen him, but he knows us. That is troubling. He’s not armed and if things turned physical, I’m sure even you could best him. You are gleefully ignorant - looking at the beautiful architecture and dresses pass by. He’s working alone, and that is a definite advantage. 

I turn to you. “I suppose that we should dance.”

You snort rather unattractively. “What?”

“What? Are we not at a ball?” I say casually watching him from the corner of my eye. 

“Dance? You realise that you have to touch me, correct?” your voice jumps an octave. 

“I am familiar with the mechanics of dancing,” I attempt to appear conversational if not slightly enamoured of you. ”We are being watched. So unless you want to run in those heels and pretty dress, please dance with me?”

I offer my hand to you recalling my days at school. I honestly canot remember the last time I danced with a female. Suddenly, I feel awkward and unsure - and I loathe the emotion. 

Your eye widen as your small hand joins mine. Like memory, I lead you to the edge of the dance floor, bringing you close like the pairs around us. I might have brought you too close, in fact. Your scent fills my head again, and I must remember to stay focused. Our lives could depend on it. 

As I glide us surreptitiously across the floor, I feel you gasp. “What?”

“Where did you learn to dance so well?” There is genuine shock in your voice.

“School of course,” I am amused that you truly believe me to be some kind of android. I bow my head to your ear. “You are a better dancer than Mycroft.”

You relax in my arms. “That’s a relief.”

“And you let me lead.” 

On the other side of the room, I see the hallway that leads to an office I need to access. He searches the crowd for us. If he can’t see our faces, we can cross to the hallway. My arm tightens around your waist - and you stiffen for a moment. I glance down to see if your cheeks have flushed and stare directly into the cleavage of your dress. Funny, I don’t recall the neckline being that low until now. 

The room becomes stuffy and my pulse speeds. My last contact with a woman was Ms. Adler - the Woman. Oddly, that distinction has been waning as of late. Perhaps it is her ambition to trick me or best me that has worn on me. I find illegitimate people unappealing. 

Here you are, fetching in your navy dress, a perfect complement to your skin tone. There is not ulterior motive, nor sickening adoration. I considered asking for Molly to assist me, but disregarded that immediately. That door shall never be opened for fear of compromising an adequate working relationship. Molly would see this as a romantic overture. 

Your pulse quickens with mine and my brain begins to lose focus. Only the useful things, I remind myself. 

“Have you danced with Lestrade?” 

When you look up, the light catches your eyes and I notice a faint scar in the crease of your chin. Childhood accident.

 “No, the occasion has never risen,” you shrug.

 “Shame. You are an adequate dancer.” We are close to the edge of the dance floor. He has lost his view of us. 

“Aren’t you full of compliments tonight,” your laugh reverberates against me. 

For once, I see no annoyance, recoil, or disdain in your eyes. Everything has softened.

“Lucy,” I say in your ear.

“Yes Sherlock,” your breath grazes my cheek.

My mind goes blank like a dry erase board; your everything is the cloth. I snap myself back to attention. 

“All clear. Let’s get to work.” I step away quickly and grab your hand. 

In a daze, you stagger behind. 

“Hurry,” I hiss. 

Your focus sharpens and you nod. I marvel as you ascend the stairs with grace and speed. 

 

* * * * * * *

Lucy  
￼  
“Do you know what you’re looking for?” I stand by the doorway. 

There is no answer as your fingers dance across the keyboard. Your eyes scan file after file. 

“Whose office is this?”

“Quiet, I’m thinking,” you snap.

I look around the claustrophobic room. I can’t imagine this person holds the key to terrorism. I search for photos on the desk. It’s a middle-aged man and his dog. I wander over to the desk.

“You have one purpose here and that is to keep look out. As far as I can tell, you cannot do it from here,” you glance up.

“Fine,” I stand by the door again. 

How you went from human to asshole in such a short time is really staggering. I think your brother has impossible hopes for you. 

My phone buzzes. 

Can I see you tonight? I’m almost done here - Greg

I glance up at you mesmerized by the files flashing on the screen while you take photos with your phone. You see me looking at my phone and roll your eyes. 

“How can you monitor when you are texting your boyfriend?” you ask bitterly. 

Definitely - I respond.

I hear your exasperated sigh as I put my phone away. I see a couple stumble down the hall.

“Someone’s coming,” I whisper.

You click the monitor off to darken the room. I feel you behind me, watching over my shoulder. The amorous couple giggle as they stagger by, disappearing into the bathroom. You don’t move right away. 

“Let’s get you to Lestrade,” you say coolly and go back to finish your work. 

* * * * * *

Sherlock  
￼

I attempt to process the files I scanned. I know I will not come to any conclusions until I see everything in front of me. What would connect an overweight mid-level office worker to an attempt at your life? The email that you kept in secret from me came from his computer - yet there was no trace of it ever being on that hard drive or the company network. Clearly, he was not the one to compose or send it. 

As the cab waits at a stoplight, a biker zooms past. A bicyclist at this hour of the night? 

I hear deep breathing. You are curled beside me - asleep. You have taken your hair down. I see you shiver against the cold leather seat. I knew you would be cold in that flimsy shawl. I remove my scarf and gingerly drape it over you. 

Who wants to harm you? It’s not Lestrade they want to get to - it’s me. Why have they chosen you?

My eyes return to the city zipping by. I watch for anyone that might be watching us. Perhaps having you accompany me was irresponsible. If they think you mean more than you do, the danger may escalate. However, perhaps that would flush the aggressor to the surface. I may need to place you in danger to ultimately save your life. 

Lestrade waits on the doorstep. You stir when the taxi stops with a halt. 

“Did I doze?” you blink.

“You did. We’re home and you have a visitor,” I lean forward to pay the fare.

You look down. “Is this your scarf?”

“You looked cold.”

The door opens on your side. “What? Greg, what are you doing here?”

“You said you wanted to get together,” he helps you out of the taxi. 

“Keep the change,” I say to the driver.

We stand on the sidewalk. 

“Is it too late?” he asks. “I really wanted to see you.”

“It’s not too late,” you look over your shoulder. “Maybe we should go to your place.”

“No please,” I say. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

“You’ll be working all night,” you say as you take his hand. “We’ll get out of your way.”

“In that case, have a good night,” I bow. Secretly, I am relieved that I will not be subjected to whatever night time noises that might erupt from your bedroom. 

You remove my scarf. “Thank you.”

“It will be a cold walk, keep it for your journey,” I say and walk up the stairs. 

Lestrade wraps an arm around you as you wrap my scarf around your neck. I pause with my hand on the door knob and watch you disappear down the street. 

The flat is perfectly quiet, as I like it. I remove my coat and move to directly to my computer. I flick through the photos on my mobile. Without thinking, my fingers glide across the phone.

Thank you for your assistance - SH

I return to my task. Connecting my phone to my laptop, I allow my decoding program to run while I put on the kettle. My mobile lights up when I return.

Anytime - L

I watch numbers and files flash on my screen as they reconcile and pair. 

Thank you for the lovely dance - L

I gaze out the window to the deserted streets below. In the kitchen, the kettle whistles. 

Anytime - SH


	10. Rotten food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg declares love, while Sherlock gives Lucy dieting tips

Lucy

It’s been weeks since the ball and neither of us have said much about that night. You’ve been busy and particularly bristly as of late. That softer side of you has vanished under what I refer to as the ‘Sherlock exoskeleton’. We are two ships that pass far out to sea lately. You only texts have been to ask for milk or tea or something you need. 

You come home some time before dawn, and I shudder to think of the great Sherlock taking the walk of shame. I didn’t blink when you said you were going on holiday. Though the thought of you in bathing trunks makes me giggle when you leave the room.

Things with Greg have been moving along nice. I wish I swooned at the thought of him, but he’s kind and handsome. There is a generous nature around him and I never second guess what’s running through his mind. 

Greg takes me to dinner at a fancy French restaurant that I know he can’t afford. He wants to celebrate the finalization of his divorce. He credits us for his freedom. You,for telling him how it is with and me, for giving him a second chance. We toast to new beginnings and share cheesecake. 

I take Greg to our place as you won’t be home. I remember you muttering something about world’s colliding. I know how you loathe any kind of affection, so I don’t bring him around much. 

We drink wine and listen to music. I light a fire and we snuggle. We make love and he presents me with a small gold heart pendant on a chain. He offers his heart to me.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you, Greg,” I say. 

I didn’t hear the front door open. Or the creaky floorboard in front of my room. I have no idea that you are home.   
￼  
* * * * * * * *

Lucy  
￼  
“Good morning,” I say when you walk into the kitchen. “Thought you were away for the night.”

“Evidently,” you remark dryly.

I roll my eyes not caring that you see it. I often ignore your comments or otherwise, I’d be in jail for homicide - or at least battery.

“Has our visitor left?” you ask.

“I didn’t realise he was ‘our’ guest,” I chuckle.

“This is our flat, correct?” he raises an eyebrow.

“I thought it was your flat and you just allowed me to stay here.”

“Well, you are hardly here anymore. I thought it was something I said.”

I smile. “It probably was.”

You smirk back.

You prepare your coffee - two sugars and no cream. You make a face as you watch me pour a healthy portion of cream in my cup. I take my breakfast to the table to enjoy the silence. I hope it is a quiet day instead of one of those days you start talking at dawn and don’t stop until I go to bed. 

“What is this?” you poke your head out of the kitchen.

I look at the butter dish in your hand. “Butter. You’ve been using it for 36 years.”

You sigh. “I know what butter is. What is this in it??”

“Looks like toast crumbs,” I answer with a shrug.

“Precisely,” you snap. 

“Since when do you get OCD over toast crumbs in the butter?” I laugh.

“It’s not OCD, it’s anal retentive. They bother me. They don’t belong in the butter so please, when you butter your toast, would you be so kind to wipe the knife as to not disperse toast crumbs onto the butter?” you blink uncontrollably - clearly perturbed over the bloody toast crumbs. 

“If it means that much to you, I will mind my toast crumbs,” I say patronizingly. 

“Thank you,” and you leave in a huff without returning the butter to the refrigerator. 

I consider going after you about that, but decide it is not worth the 30 minute conversation about butter placement. 

* * * * * * *

Sherlock

￼  
You are home but I don’t open my eyes. I see images, numbers, and figures behind my eyelids. Slowly, I’m making connection between seemingly abstract ideas and relationships. My mind wanders briefly away from the essential things.

You are home from work with a paper bag filled with cheese, radishes, romaine lettuce and tomatoes. I gather that you must be watching calories as you have no sweets or fattening protein with you.

I snap my mind back like a rubber band.

“Bloody hell!” You swear and your bag of groceries hit the floor. “Sherlock!”

I close my senses to you. I’m close to a major breakthrough and must not be distracted. I smell you looming before me. Without opening my eyes, I know your nostrils are flaring.

“Sherlock Holmes, get out of your mind palace and open your eyes,” you demand.

I sigh and watch your aggressive form materialize in front of me. Arms crossed and your lips drawn into a straight line. You are quite angry.

“What is so important?” I shake my head.

“I’m going to deduce that you unplugged the refrigerator,” your foot taps.

“Obviously. Mrs. Hudson didn’t do it. Or maybe it was the spoiling food bandits,” I am so clever most times.

“I’m glad you are amused,” you glare.

“Interesting, you don’t appear to be happy,” I shrug. “Can I be left alone now?”

“I hope you know that all the food in there is now spoiled. When did you unplug it?”

“Right after you left for work.”

“So twelve hours. Why? It was filled with food I bought just a day ago,” your eyes are incredulous.

“That is precisely why I did it. The conditions were perfect. We rarely have that much food in there,” I explain.

“Because you never buy any,” you retort.

“Why would I? I don’t eat as much as you.” Silly girl. “You should just eat less if you want lose weight.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Your voices drops several octaves to almost a growl.

“I’m guessing by what you had in there and in your bag today that you are dieting. Just eat less. It’s really quite simple,” I start to explain the science of calories.

“Shut up, for the love of everything holy, shut the hell up,” you hiss.

I may have overstepped I realize.

“I have endured quite a bit from you. Grey laundry, holes in my wall, my computer blown to bits - and now an icebox filled with inedible food. But telling me how to diet, well that’s quite enough,” you huff.

Your cheeks are flushed with anger. I’m brought back to the last time I saw this crimson color - our dance months ago. I’m sure my complexion matched yours. Maybe less as you have natural color in your warm flesh. Behind the anger flashing in your eyes, I see hurt. Something I did or said has made you feel emotional pain.

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to suggest you need one,” I mutter.

“Plug it back in, and clean it out,” you order as you turn away.

“I cannot do that yet. I need to see how long before the spoilage stench makes it to this room,” I state. “After, I will replace your food in a clean and sterile refrigerator.”

You sigh and collect the food that has spilled on the floor in the kitchen.

“Text me when that is done,” you say. “I’m going to Greg’s.”

“Of course,” I roll my eyes.

With a slam of the door, you leave.

My fingers drum on the arms of the chair. I pick up my phone and stare at my reflection in the darkened screen.

For the record, I think you look just fine as you are. Please do not waste away for anyone - SH

No response.

My phone buzzes.

Which library did you want to meet at? - JW

I sigh and return my phone face down. Thirty minutes pass.

My phone buzzes again.

I’m waiting…if I don’t hear I’m staying home tonight - JW

Another hour, another text.

Let’s have dinner - Irene

And dessert - Irene

Two hours pass.

You should eat too. I hope you at least enjoyed the ice cream before it became soup - L

* * * * * * * 

Sherlock  
￼

“What have you done to poor Lucy?” John crosses his arms in front of his chest.

I look up from the microscope. “What?”

“Lucy, she’s thinking of moving out,” John states.

I’ve heard you threaten countless times to move in with your mother. If I had never met her, I might find some credence in the threat. I have no doubt that I’m a better flatmate.

“She says that often,” I dismiss.

“I think she means it. She wanted Mary to show her some flats for sale.”

I snort. “She can’t afford anything around us.”

“Would it kill you to try to be an affable housemate?” He asks.

“I’m positively pleasant,” I offer. He fixes me with the look. “As pleasant as I can be. Look, I took her to a ball. Isn’t that nice?”

“That was work,” John says.

“We danced ” I shrugged.

“You? Danced?” He blinks amazed. “The traditional sense of dancing and not some bizarre Holmes ritual.”

“Real dancing. There was even touching involved. Ooh, scandalous,” I roll my eyes and return to work.

“For you, that is. When was the last time you touched a woman? Irene?”

“I hug Mrs. Hudson all the time.” I feel the heat in the room building knowing that it most likely has nothing to with the thermostat.  
￼  
John opens his mouth to continue when we are gleefully interrupted by Molly.

“Molly,” I smile genuinely. “Thank you for the coffee.”

Molly turns purple instantly. “Oh, you are quite welcome. Hello John.”

His eyes don’t leave my face. “Hello Molly.”

I return to the microscope and leave John and Molly to be social.

“How’s the case?” She asks.

I tune them out as I analyze the specimen of mud. I notice the fibers that Anderson missed so easily. Really, did he get his License from a gumball machine? Or was it a mail-away catalogue?

“So is it true then,” Molly nervously wringing her hands together.

“What being true?” John asks. He smirks. “That Sherlock went to a dance with a girl?”

I pull my eyes up to send John a glare.

“That Detective Inspector Lestrade is getting remarried,” Molly says.

My head snaps in her direction. “What?”

“I heard he proposed to his new girlfriend, Lucy… That’s her name, right?”

I feel John watching me.

Molly cocks her head to the side. “What’s this about a dance?”

“Have you heard about this?” John asks me.

I would have noticed if you had a new ring on your finger, especially an important finger. However lately I’ve been avoiding looking at you at all.

“Sherlock, are you all right?” He peers closer.

I think about your behaviour, nothing indicates what has been suggested. You wear your emotions on your sleeve. I knew you’d been receiving threatening emails before I hacked your account. I know when you’ve had bad intercourse, and I know when it’s left you dissatisfied. There is no way you could hide this from me. But you did manage to keep him a secret for months….

“Sherlock!” John snaps me back into focus.

I step away from the microscope. I’m certain that is not the news but my reaction that has me on edge.

“I will be back,” I say.

“Where are you going?” John frowns.

For once, John is correct in his assumptions. That does not mean I intend to discuss it.

￼  
“What dance?” Molly asks with more urgency. The news of you and Lestrade has her upset as she fancied him a bit.

I button my jacket and grab my wool coat from the hook.

“Sherlock took Lucy to a dance,” he answers but his eyes on me. He wants to follow but knows better.

“Oh,” disappointment drips from her voice.

I don’t look over my shoulder as I leave. The November air is most welcome on my warm face. I watch dry leaves swirl in the street as I exit St. Bart’s.

What now?


	11. Red red wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock drinks some of Angelo's wine

Lucy

“You are going straight into the rubbish” I mutter to my cute, but painful heels. They felt lovely in the store. Sometime around 11am, they transformed into a device of torture.

I hobble around the corner wondering how uncivilized would it be to go in stocking feet. Perhaps if it were a little warm. The cold November concrete would be unforgiving and it was too dark to see glass. I see a taxi parked a few feet from the flat. Not unusual except for the figure leaning against it. I hear your voice arguing with the driver, but it sounds different - somewhat garbled. I quicken my pace as the argument escalates.

“Sherlock?” I expect this to be a twin - perhaps an evil twin with a name as ridiculous as Sherlock and Mycroft. Maybe he is the good twin, the amiable one in the group.

Your head turns to me but yours eyes don’t focus. “This is my taxi. Bugger off.”

You reek of wine among other things. Good God, are you drunk ? 

“What’s the problem, sir ?” I ask the driver.

“He hailed me over for a ride. Fine. Then he gives me the address. It’s here. He’s where he wants to be. But he’s arguing with me.”

“I’ll haf you reported…my brother is verry impotent….important,” you slur.

“Sherlock, have you been drugged?” I cannot imagine that you would willingly souse yourself. 

You look at me with genuine shock as if just recognizing me. A large grin breaks across your face. It’s so real and warm, it’s alarming and a bit creepy.

“Lucy! You’re here!” You look over my shoulder. “You can piss off now.” 

The driver yells some choice words before he peels away.

“Hello Lucy,” you almost sing.

“What happened to you? Have you been drugged? Shall I call John over?”

Your face turns sour. “Don’t call Jawn. He’ll gloat and deduce me to death. So not qualified, is he. I don’t do drugs anymore.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever referred to that checkered past that everyone knows exists but they either don’t know the details or talk about them.

“Fine, let’s get you upstairs,” I dig for my keys. It’s likely you have lost yours.

You whirl around. “Did you pay the cabbie?”

“Yes,” I lie.

The thought of you stumbling from wherever does make me smile. Oh such ammunition you’ve given me. I can’t wait to break out my phone to video this moment to relish and use later. Maybe at the holiday party with all your acquaintances. It is indeed a wonderful life.

You practically crawl up the narrow stairs. I know how treacherous these stairs can be in your state. You burst into the flat with an “A-Ha!” I have no idea why.

“I’ll make tea,” I watch you struggle to remove your coat. “With two tea bags.”

You stumble closer. “Where is the finger?”

“Come again?”

You roll your eyes. “The finger.” You get inches from my face. “You know….FINGER.”

“Did you have one with you?” I look on the floor. Perhaps it fell out of your pocket. My nonchalance speaks volumes of what our relationship has become. You say you lost a finger and I don’t blink.

“No…no no no. Your finger. Where is your finger?” You say.

I look down at all ten digits. “Right here?”

You grab my hands and stare at them for a long time. “It’s not here.”

“Let me make you some tea and get you to bed,” I pull away.

You grin lopsided. “Lucy, I had no idea you fancied me.”

I recoil. “What? Oh if you think that Holmes, then you ARE high.”

“High on life,” you collapse on the sofa.

I go into the kitchen to put the kettle on. 

“Auntie Em, are we in the middle of a tornado?” you call. 

“What are you on about?”

“The room is spinning….” you say.

Shite! I rush from the kitchen. 

“I don’t feel well,” you moan.

I grab you by the collar and heave you to your feet. I don’t hear you wretch, but the splat of liquid hitting the floor.

Your body convulse against me. Quickly, I clap my hand over your mouth and usher you into the bathroom. I feel wetness against my palm, but better that then having you spray the flat with your stomach contents. I toss you in front of the toilet, as you howl into the bowl.

After washing my hands, I go to mop up the floor. There is not one bit of food in your vomit confirming my fear that you had a liquid dinner of booze. This will be a long night. 

I return to the bathroom and place a cool wet towel on the back of your neck. I know as bad as you feel now, you’ll feel worse tomorrow. I leave you to empty your stomach, your howls, wretches echoing all the way to the kitchen. I add a piece of toast to the strong tea I prepared. 

Tomorrow, you will be Sherlock again. Cold and distant. Showing only glimmers of real humanity. All my efforts tonight will go unnoticed. So why am I not leaving you to die on the floor?

After awhile, the bathroom is silent. I peer around the corner to see you rubbing your face as you lean back on your heels.

“Are you empty?” I ask.

“I am afraid so,” your voice is raspy. 

“Ready to get out of here?” I ask.

“Please,” you haul yourself up and bounce against the wall. 

I turn on the faucet for you to wash your face. “Are you hungry?”

“Not in the slightest,” you whisper.

“Right then, let’s get you to bed,” I wrap a steady arm around you.

Your blurry eyes look down at me. “You are too nice, Miss Lucy. I’m not nice.”

“Then I guess we even each other out,” I guide you to your room. 

I swear I feel you give me a little squeeze. “That we do.”

“Ready? Let me know if the room spins,” I ease you on the bed.

“No spinning room, but are we on a boat?” you blink.

“Let me fetch a bucket - in case,” I say. 

Your shoes clunk to the floor. You’ve flopped to your stomach. I notice that you have yet to repaint your replastered wall. 

“This is your bucket, should you feel the need. Do you need anything?” I ask.

Slowly, you open your red rimmed eyes. Your hand covers mine. “You’re not moving out, are you?”

I didn’t expect that. “No, not when you are being so charming.”

You offer a weak laugh. “Thank you, Lucy. This was more than I deserve.” You yawn. “You are more than I deserve.”

My heart thunders in my ears. “Stop it, Holmes. I’m about to check if you’ve been swapped for a nicer model.”

That elicits another weak smile. “You don’t know my distinguishing marks.”

“There is next White Sheet Tuesday,” I joke. The room suddenly gets warm and uncomfortable. 

Your eyes close. “Hmmm.”

“Okay, sweet dreams.” I need to get out of here. 

I’m not prepared for what happens next. In your dark room, I feel your soft lips press against the back of my hand. I feel like I could use your bucket. I stare at the dark curls in sharp contrast to the crisp white pillow. Your eyes close. 

“Goodnight, Lucy-Lou.”

Gingerly, I reclaim my hand. I fly from the room so fast, I nearly knock over the bucket. The hallway offers some cooler air. My cheeks are on fire. I steady myself against the wall, clenching my stomach. You kissed my hand - deliberately. Even though you are polluted as the Thames, I never expected such an action from you, Sherlock Holmes, the most impassive man in the world. I know you will not remember any of this. Yet I will be the one that will have to carry your actions around like a weight.

How did you know my middle name is Louise?

* * * * * * *  
Sherlock

The room is thankfully dark when I pry one eye open. Over the edge of my bed, I see an empty bucket. In flashes, the night before comes back to me. I only have two clear recollections of the night. I remember leaving St. Bart’s with a head full of barbed wire. And your infinite kindness towards me. I don’t remember the details of my actions much beyond the toilet. You put a cold cloth on my neck. You got me to my bed. 

I flip onto my back with my head raging. I had only three glasses of wine. I should know better to drink Angelo’s homemade elixir. 

You are bustling around the flat in a hurry. My vision is blurry as I look at my watch. Christ, it’s early. I should pull myself from my bed to thank you, but I’m honestly too embarrassed. My actions were well beneath me and my intelligence.

I knew better than to sit in that restaurant and listen to Angelo blather on about his wife. Seems she has strayed and he wanted me on the case. I don’t take simple domestic cases, but it was nice to get out of my own head for a time. This morning was my penance for letting my guard down.  
Another memory strikes me - your hands. There was no ring. Lestrade is too traditional to propose without the proper token. However, the salary of a Detective Inspector cannot afford anything spectacular. Perhaps he is saving for something. 

After I hear the front door shut, I emerge from my dark room. Our flat is flooded with sunlight. I see no trace of last night. Everything has been cleaned, the toilet, the floor. Oh yes, I had forgotten about the floor. 

In the rubbish, I spy the two tea bags and toast. On the counter, you left out the bottle of aspirin. 

I fumble through my coat pocket for my mobile. I flick through my messages. Two from John. One from Mycroft. One from Irene.

John wondered how I was - of course.

Mycroft pestered me about a case of his. Last time I took one of his causes, I wound up drugged and entangled with a woman colder than me.

And Irene, THE Woman asking again if I cared for dinner. She comes across as desperate - not attractive and not the new sexy. The new sexy is…..  
I don’t allow myself to finish that thought. Physically I should be hungry, but I’m too unsettled to want food. For the first time since you moved in, you have an advantage over me. I hate that. 

My phone buzzes. Another wellness check from John, I’m sure. 

I hope you survived the night - L

I smirk. You do care.

I appreciate your efforts last night -SH

You are welcome? - L

I press the phone to my lips. Something more happened. What? I woke up dressed. I was alone. I was alone when you found me. 

I sigh. What if you hadn’t found me? They call them Danger Nights and I was on my way to one. You found me and have no idea how that saved me - even if I won’t admit you may have had a hand in my state to begin with. 

I will find a way to properly thank you - SH

How about leaving the refrigerator plugged in - L

I chuckle. You can be so droll. 

What are flatmates for -L

My phone is silent after that. 


	12. Break in at 221B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas cheer comes to Baker Street, and it's not alone

Lucy

You never mention that night. I guess you still haven’t found the proper way to thank me, as your last text was the last time it was ever mentioned. No instead, you burst through the door spouting off about a breakthrough in one of your cases. There is not even a flicker of gratitude or embarrassment. Either you don’t remember or you don’t care to have that memory.

I’m relieved personally. While I tossed, my head played tricks on me that night as it drifted for a nano second to consider a romantic attachment to you. Dating you? What could be more ridiculous?

It took a day or two for the hangover of the night to subside. I still kick myself for not even snapping a picture.

You return to perfect Sherlock form like it never happened. You inform me that my friend Cindy cannot come over anymore as her perfume offends you. Oh, and you find her laugh to be shrill and fake. Considering that it was stated in front of her, I don’t think she’ll be by again.

I should invite my coworker Nancy over. Ever since your face popped up on my computer, she asks for you. If I were feeling particularly mischievous, I would tell her that you fancy her and would love nothing but to find her naked in your bed. I relish that daydream of you finding an annoying naked woman in your bed. That would be one to video. Alas, I don’t hate Nancy enough to torture her.

The only good thing about living with you is John. He is like a Sherlock support system. I think he enjoys having someone who understands what he went through. Most times he visits with me while you do whatever it is that you do.

Like tonight, you’ve asked for John’s help but not have said more than three words to him while you comb through a box of books. Perhaps this your odd way of matchmaking. John and I could get married then adopt you as our child.

“Do you have a date set?” I ask John.

“Mary likes spring,” he says.

You make a face. “It’s cold and rainy in spring.”

“We live in England. It’s always cold and wet,” he responds.

“Won’t look so handsome in your morning coat,” I wink to you.

You roll your eyes and plunge your hands into the box.

“I’m not sure Mary will allow him to be in the wedding party,” he says to me.

Did I see hurt flicker in your eyes?

“I guess not after the duck incident,” I muse.

“It was undercooked, she could have killed us all,” you pontificate. 

“Oh, I think you do a better job of taking care of the place and him,” John says.

We exchange a quick glance and think back to Danger Night.

“I am right here,” you declare. You hate being talked around lately. You used to not care if John and I chatted about you - you just tune us out.

“Let’s see what looks good on spring,” I fetch the calendar.

Wedding talk greatly irritates you. You sigh, roll your eyes and snip when the topic pops up. I’m not sure what you are more jealous of - Mary or the new life John is creating for himself? Are you sad that future is not in your cards? Or do you really find it all pointless?

I sit beside John on the sofa. As I flip pages, I notice strange marks on five to six days at a time, roughly 28 days apart. I then realize they coincide with something very personal to me.

John sucks in his breath and it confirms my suspicions.

“Have you been tracking my menstrual cycles?” I ask.

You look up. “Of course.”

“Why?”

“I live with you. It would irresponsible to not keep track of something like that. I need to know when you will be the most irrational,” you state casually. “I can’t believe that it took you this long to figure it out.”

“You really are an arsehole,” I storm to my room. 

“I told you she’d not be pleased,” John clucked.

You walk over to the calendar and point. “See, based on this, we could have predicted her reaction.”

* * * * * * * *

Sherlock

I barrel into the flat to head straight to a laptop - any will do. Mine is not where I remember leaving it. I turn to the other side of the desk. Wait. The desk is on the other side of the den. I stop in the centre of the room. 

The sofa is in front of the fireplace, while our chairs are against the opposite wall. The books are organized by size in the bookcases. 

I move to the kitchen. Plates and glasses have been swapped. The contents of the food pantry are where the cooking pans are kept. I know you are behind this. Who else would want to vex me in this way?

I run to my room, obviously you wouldn’t. Well….I guess you would. Had you been a bit stronger, my furniture would have been nailed to the ceiling.   
I glance in your bedroom - and everything is exactly where it should be. I know that you have stuffed the medicine cabinet with every feminine product on the market - whether you use them or not. 

You know that I need my order in my life. In my pile of files, only I know which one I need when I need it. All this backwards order makes my skin crawl - and I feel claustrophobic - like this is not my flat. 

I know this was not a childish prank - that’s not you. This is in response to something I have done or said. 

Was it offending your friend Mindy? Was it plotting out your woman’s cycle? Was it getting sick of the floor and acting like a fool? 

I go through the rolodex of possible occasions that have brought you to this. 

I need air. It will take me days to undo what you’ve taken just hours to accomplish. Was John your accomplice? I could see him relishing a little payback for the duck incident. 

I come home after midnight. It was as if this afternoon had never occurred. Everything, and I mean everything, has been restored. Maybe a few books are out sorts, but I marvel at your industriousness.

If you only put that ambition into work or even your writing, you could afford that lovely flat down the street that Mary showed you a few weeks ago.   
Well done, Lucy - SH

Usually you take at least a half hour to respond. Not tonight.

I knew you would appreciate the effort - L

I grin.  
   
* * * * * *

Lucy

Two things I never expected to see in our flat - a green Christmas pine and you under it. 

“What is this?” I ask.

Your head pokes out. “Are you Jewish?”

“No, I am aware this is a Christmas tree. What is it doing here?”

You pull yourself out from under the tree. “I thought you would enjoy having something festive in the house? Are you a Grinch?”

I burst out laughing. “No, but aren’t you?”

“I don’t mind Christmas. You’ve been listening to Christmas music before December, so I know you enjoy it. I thought you would like to have a tree.”

My heart stops. “Did you have one with John?”

“We did, but he put it up,” you brush needles off your shirt.

“Did you do this for me?” My heart is in my throat. 

Your eyes meet mine. “And for me. As I said, I enjoy festive occasions.”

I see pine needles in your dark curls. Without thinking, I reach over and brush them out. Alarm strikes your face. Sometimes I forget the boundaries in our ‘relationship’. I snatch my hand back. 

Clearing my throat, “Do you have decorations?”

“A few. John had most of them. Mrs. Hudson hangs hers on our tree. Do you have any with you?”

I make a face. “I’ll need to go to mum’s house for them.”

“This will do for now,” you take your coat off the hook. “I’m off.”

“Leaving now?” I think it is odd that you came home just to plop this tree in our living room. 

“Maybe Lestrade can help you. He’s on his way,” you turn your collar up on your wool coat. 

How did you know that? Your cheeks seem flushed. Was it physical activity? My closeness? Or Greg’s visit? I’ll never know. It could be a family issue for all I know. I don’t dare presume that I’m important enough to raise your blood pressure. 

“Thank you for the tree,” I offer before you make a hasty exit.

“Anytime,” you smile sheepishly before the door closes.  
   
I look at the lush tree before me. Beside it is a box labeled ‘lights and ornaments’.

Were you planning on trimming the tree with me?

* * * * * *

Sherlock

I pause at the front door knowing immediately that something is terribly wrong. The wood around the lock is splintered. Quietly, I enter the hallway and listen. The house is painfully still. Mrs. Hudson’s door is intact. She is away visiting her sister in the country.

I look up the stairs to find ours wide open. It’s now eight at night. If you haven’t gone to Lestrade’s - you might be home. Carefully, I inch up the stairs. I smell cheap cologne, cigar smoke, and you.

The flat has been ransacked. My books have been cleared from the shelves. Our Christmas tree lies on its side surrounded by broken ornaments. Both laptops are missing. Good luck getting into mine, I think. However, you will be upset that yours has been taken.

I glance around. It was two, no three men. One was slight - clearly the ‘brains’ of the operation. He took the laptops. The brute limited intelligence did most of the destruction. Was there another muscle?

Judging by the strong stench of cologne, this was recent. I see your coat across the arm of my chair. Peeking out from under the sofa is your bag. Some of the contents have spilled to the back of the couch. A lump forms in my throat. You were here when they came.

I rush by my room. It is rummaged through, but sloppily. Where are you? They did not spend a lot of time in here, which is very peculiar. 

“Lucy! Are you here?”

I go into your room. It looks as if a bloody tornado has struck it. Your bed over turned. Items from your drawers strewn about the room. Were you the target?   
My heart races like a runaway freight train.

“Lucy!” My voices shakes.

Dear God, where could they have taken you? Any criminal worth their salt would leave a clue. I rush to the kitchen. Silverware is scattered on the counters. The intruders have left our refrigerator door open. Now that’s just rude.

I don’t see a note, a mark or anything. Maybe your phone is still in your purse. I rush to the den when my phone buzzes.

Is that you? - L

Where are you?  - SH

I feel every second tick in my chest waiting for your response.

In your closet - L

I nearly trip over myself to get up to my room. I rip the door of my closet open and see just my clothes.

“Up here,” your voice is weak.

How you managed to scramble into the small crawl space above my closet, I’ll never know. You are incredibly agile. I see your dirty face peer out from the entrance.

“You need to dust up here. And it smells like a small animal has died,” you say.

“Are you all right? How long have you been up there?” I ask.

“About two hours. I was afraid they were waiting for me. I thought they knew I was home. I tried to hide any evidence that I was home, but they had to have heard me,” you cough.

“Let’s get you out of there,” I search my room for something to stand on.

“Take these first.”

I see my laptop come out of the ceiling.

“How did you get them and yourself up there?”

“The computers might be dented as I gave them a mighty shove,” you pass yours down. “I wasn’t sure what they were looking for but I figured hiding these was a good idea.”

I smile with pride. “It was a brilliant idea, Lucy.”

I felt giddy with relief.

“Okay, I’m coming down now,” your bare legs dangle from the crawl space.

“Are you dressed?” I notice some fresh scrapes and cuts on your knees and calves.

“I was about to go for a run,” you say.

“At this hour? It’s dark.”

“And more dangerous than being home?” Your voice drips with sarcasm.

“Point taken,” your skin is soft under my hands. I wish someone else was here to do this.

Slowly, you ease out of the crawl space and into my arms. You stare at me for a moment before tossing your arms around my neck and bury your face in my coat.

“Thank God it was you,” you sigh unevenly.

I relax and give you a small squeeze. I am probably more relieved than you, but cannot show that to anyone - least of all you.

 

* * * * * * * * 

Sherlock

I call John first, then Lestrade. You sit quietly with a cup of some flowery fragrant herbal tea Mrs. Hudson left us.

“It tastes as bad as it smells,” you say. 

I know any caffeine will not be helpful to your frayed nerves - which only become more frayed as I discover that you are indeed a target. I’m neatly completed with my forensic search of our flat when people start turning up. I begin studying finger prints and clothing fibers when Lestrade rushes through the door. 

He kneels in front of you and treats me to a rather public display of affection. If my stomach weren’t already empty, it would certainly feel the need to toss its contents after that.

I inform him that not only are you the target, but one of his own is involved. He is skeptical until I show him the fibers I found. They are Scotland Yard issued.  
Your strong exterior starts to chip away with all this information. 

“Why would anyone care about me? I’m no one,” you shrug, voice quivering slightly. 

John and I exchange a tense glance. I can hear what he’s thinking, but for my sanity, I block it out. Why was John a target? He was deemed to the person closest to me. I think that is the biggest reason. You are guilty by association. I know John thinks it’s deeper than that.

As Lestrade moves away, I take his place in front of you. 

“Really, I’m not important. I don’t blog about you. I’m not your sidekick,” you protest.

I cover your folded hands with mine. I never noticed how small they are until now. 

“Well, you do count and now it is a matter of keeping you safe,” I say. “It’s clearly not safe for you to stay here. You should stay with your mother.”

You open your mouth to protest.

“She can stay with me,” Lestrade announces.

I turn my head, but don’t look at him. “You think she’s safe there? An enemy of mine is an enemy of yours. Especially when they are working from within your department.”

“Maybe so, but I have a gun.”

“I also have a firearm.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. I have one advantage that you don’t.”

“And what is that?”

“I love her.”

I only wish that I could communicate my emotions succinctly as Lestrade just has. I look up at your eyes wide in fear. Deep within the pools of blue, I sense your question. My mind tries to process something to make you stay. Why would I want you to stay? Habit? Comfort? Any other option is NOT an option.

“Then she should stay with you,” I break our gaze. I move away and allow Lestrade to take my place.

“Lucy,” he takes your hands in his.

“Greg,” you give his a squeeze but your eyes are still on mine. 

I right our Christmas tree and start replacing the unbroken ornaments. John moves beside me.

“Is that a good idea letting her stay with Lestrade?”

“He’s a detective, correct?” 

“Yes, one that goes to you for help,” he points out.

“You heard him. He loves her. That makes him better qualified,” I roll my eyes.

John stares at me for a second. “Now you have something in common with him.”

Before I can protest, John walks away.

* * * * * *   
Lucy

 

Greg watches me pack a bag with all the things I’ll need for at least a week. You weren’t sure how long it would take to find the person behind all this. You are convinced that the men that came today were not the ringleaders - just following orders. First bit of business, finding out who in the department is the traitor. Were they the same that have sent me emails? The one that exploded my computer?

For months, I had been itching to leave here - but I’m moving slow now. Greg works for Scotland Yard, yet I feel safer near you. Maybe because your mind is sharp and emotions don’t rule or even touch you. Though, I saw them in your face today - fear, relief and anger. When you folded your arms around me, I felt you bury your face in my hair and take a deep breath in. I was just trying too hard to not cry that I didn’t know how to react. What if I looked up just then? 

I look to Greg who paces my room. He’s eager to get me away from the scene of the crime and into his safe home. 

“Whatever you leave behind, we can buy,” he says softly. 

I smile. “I think I’m ready.”

He pulls me into his arms. “I’m so glad you are safe.”

Greg loves me and will protect with his life. Yet, I get the sense that you would do the same. Why didn’t you stop me from leaving?

Greg grabs my suitcase and follows me to the den. The flat is still being torn apart by the police. You also pace with your eyebrows furrowed in deep thought. You stop when I enter the room.

“Packed?” You ask tightly. 

I nod. “As much as I could do in a short time. I may have to come back to get some things.”

“You do not come here alone,” you instruct sternly. 

“How long will I have to be gone?” Suddenly, I don’t want to leave.

“As long as it takes,” Greg interrupts our gaze. “We should get you settled in.”

“Okay,” I sigh. I turn to you. “Find this person so I can come home.”

“Obviously.”

“Bye John,” I wave.

He hugs me because that is just who John is. “Take care, Lucy.”

I turn to leave when you grab my arm. “If you need anything or feel your life is in peril, call me straight away.”

The look in your eyes is so intense that my knees feel a bit weak. 

“Sure thing,” I swallow hard. 

Your hand releases me like you realise that an emotional boundary has been crossed.

“Same goes for you,” you say to Greg. “You contact me immediately.”

“Of course,” he takes my hand as we walk out the front door.

I feel your eyes at my back.


	13. Christmas trees and cider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy gets Sherlock a present

Sherlock

“You found out who was responsible in Lestrade’s department?” John asks. 

“I did but a bit too late. He washed up on the shore by the shipyard this morning. It’s probably best Lucy is not here. I’m positive I would have let that slip. It’s best she does not know,” I say.

John shakes his head in disgust. “Did they take anything?”

“No. They were most likely looking for the laptops and Lucy. Clearly whoever is behind this does not know me well at all. I would never divulge important information to a female.”

It was clear to me that we were being watched at the ball - just to watch us. Obviously I wasn’t going to find anything in that office. How did they know I would take you?

“Have you eaten?” He looks at me as I pour over my notes. 

“A few days ago.”

Since you left, I have not eaten much. While I enjoy the silence, I miss your cooking. It was far from five star, but was more than adequate. 

John rolls his eyes. He’s never approved of my eating habits. 

“You should probably leave the flat,” he suggests.

“I did this morning when Lestrade called me about the body. Where were you? I messaged you,” I say.

“I was busy,” his cheeks pink.

I grin. “Mary, you minx.”

“There is a tree lighting in the square tonight,” he says casually.

I look blankly at John who rubs his hands together. “They are burning a tree?”

“A Christmas tree,” he gestures to our tree. “Like this one. People sing. It’s very festive.”

“Why would you think I would ever want to go to a public spectacle like that? John, how long have you know me?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Get out of the house. Everyone will be there.”

I turn back to my work.

“Mary, Molly, Lestrade,” he pauses. “Lucy…”

He’s left you for last to inspire some kind of reaction. “That sounds lovely. Hate for you to be late. You and your hideous Reindeer jumper should get down there.”

I smile. “I’m guessing Mary bought that for you.”

“Her mother knitted it,” John  sighs.

I smirk and turn my back on him. “Give everyone my best.”

“I can’t convince you, then.” He doesn’t hide his disappointment. “Right. I’m off. See you tomorrow.”

I hear the door close behind me. 

I look at the dead man’s photos. No blunt trauma, not marks of any kind. Clearly this was chemical. Molly should not be at some blasted tree lighting. She should be waiting for my toxicology report.

I stare at the photos forever but cannot focus. Perhaps I need tea. 

I move to the kitchen to start the kettle. Who needs food? I just require caffeine. My resolve deflates as I open the refrigerator door - there’s no milk.

* * * * * * *

Sherlock

The streets are lined in silver, gold, red and green. Couples huddle together against the cold as they stop to look at the store fronts. 

I would never admit to John, but the chilly air is welcoming. I loosen my scarf to enjoy the cooling effect it has on my warm skin. 

I see the cluster of people standing around a soon to be dead spruce. It’s been strangled by hundreds of strands of lights not yet lit. People push by with cups of cider and cocoa. Over a crackling speaker, some awful remake of a Christmas classic plays. 

“W-w-what are you doing here?” I hear Molly stutter behind me.

I flash a grin. “It’s a tree lighting. Who doesn’t love a good old fashioned tree lighting?”

“You,” she states.

“Nonsense, Molly. As Andy Williams sings, it’s the most wonderful time of the year.”

She doesn’t believe me. 

“I see you changed your mind,” John grins with Mary in tow.

He looks rather pleased with himself. 

“I thought I’d watch them burn the tree,” I answer dryly. 

Mary frowns. She’s pretty and the most tolerant of all his mates. However, she had taken my place while I was away and there was not much I could do about it. I had to accept her as part of John’s life. 

Just beyond Mary’s head, I see you. It’s been over a week since you left. Your cheeks are red from the December chill. Despite having your life threatened, you seem fairly jovial. John and Molly talk around me. Lestrade walks over with a cup of steaming liquid for you. 

“Sherlock!” He exclaims. “Never expected to see you here!”

This was a mistake and I knew it before leaving the house. I didn’t want to contemplate what drove me here too much, so I did not rationalize myself out of it. 

Your smile warms me to an uncomfortable level. “He’s a huge sap for Christmas.” 

“Lucy,” I nod. “How are you?”

“I’m well,” you say.

Lestrade is distracted by Molly. 

You reach up on your toes and say quietly, “I miss my own space.”

“I’m working to get you home,” I say softly and too tenderly.

I clear my throat. “You know…to your own space.”

“Of course,” you agree. 

The mayor or someone equally important starts to speak. I’m glad for the interruption. My thoughts are fuzzy and crossing over one another. I focus on the portly man on the stage. He’s having an affair. In fact his lover is here despite the fact that his wife and children are on stage with him. In fact, his lover is male. 

Scandalous. 

I glance around us, someone could be watching. It was irresponsible coming here. My proximity could be putting us all in danger.

Suddenly, the spotlights turn off plunging us into darkness. Loud and raucous holiday music blares over the speakers. Moments later, the trapped spruce twinkles with white, yellow, red, blue and green lights. 

I feel your warm fingers wrap around mine. For a moment, I cannot think or breathe. I look down as you send me a sweet smile. Independent of my brain, my hand gives yours a slight squeeze. 

I realize that I do not have my gloves. If I had remembered them, I would not be aware how soft your hand is. 

We stand there in the dark for a few minutes like this. Th music, Lestrade and everything disappears.

The cold air takes my hand as you let go to lean over to whisper in Lestrade’s ear. 

“We’re going for dinner,” you say. “All of us. Would you join us?”

My lips twitch. “I have to get back to work. I just came for some air.”

You nod, I can’t tell if you are disappointed. You were so easy to read at one time. 

With a nod, I pull my collar up to shield against the cold air. “Take care, I’ll be in touch if there is any news on the case.”

“You take care too, Sherlock,” a sad smile rests on your lips. 

I push through the throngs of revelers singing to walk home. 

* * * * * * *

Lucy

 

Greg’s flat is a little smaller than ours. He has only one bedroom and sparse furniture. There is no cozy fireplace, or tall windows. Though it smells less musty, it also feels a bit claustrophobic at times. I’m not to venture on my own, and when he works, it can be confining. At least at home, I would have more room.

I shouldn’t complain, Greg has been very accommodating. He enjoys my cooking and can make a lovely toasted cheese sandwich. He’s a bit sloppy like you, but thanks me for tidying up.

Yet, my thoughts and dreams keep trailing to you. I think back to the night you suggested that I leave Baker Street. You were rather upset even if you tried to hide it. Your normally light blue eyes had clouded like a stormy sea. I had the distinct feeling that you did not want me to go. I was hoping that you would tell me to stay. And for a moment, I thought you would stop me. 

I was surprised to see you at the tree lighting. I hope it was dark enough that you didn’t notice how happy I was. 

I looked out the small window to the street below. Greg will be home soon to celebrate our anniversary. He’s a good and kind man. So why did I take your hand at the lighting? I brush it off as an act of friendship which I think was my intent. Until you gave my hand a tender squeeze. I felt warm all over and wanted to stand like that forever.

It’s Tuesday, and you are most likely sitting in a sheet. Maybe since you are alone, you decided to forgo the sheet. A shiver runs down my spine picturing your bare ass sitting on our furniture. Whatever tricks my emotions are playing on me, I have to be strong. Holding affection for you is like falling for a unicorn - a beautiful creature not of this earth. 

I look at the tiny table top Christmas tree Greg brought home for me. It was a lovely gesture. Granted not the sprawling pine you gave me. I rub my temples to clear you from my mind. 

The key turns in the lock. Greg pushes through the door with a small bouquet of flowers in his hand. I smile. 

“Did you get those from an admirer?” I tease.

“No, they are for you ” he says.

Sometimes he does not get my jokes. You would have an equally clever come back for me. 

He leans over and plants a tender kiss on my cheek. I can feel the cold roll off of him. 

“Thank you, they are quite lovely,” I smile. Greg is a good man who deserves my love. 

“Are you ready for dinner?” he asks.

“It seems cold out,” I look out the window at the bundled people below. 

“It has gotten very chilly since the morning. I heard a rumor of snow tonight,” he says.

“Let’s get take away and cuddle on the couch,” I suggest.

“Are you sure? It’s our anniversary, and I want to take you some place special,” he kneels before me.

“I’m with you,” I touch his icy cheek. “It is special.”

He stands. “I’ll get the menus.”

I gaze out the window and swear I see a familiar wool coat whisk by.

* * * * * * * *

Sherlock

I find the post on the desk when I come home. Bills - tedious. Adverts - more tedious. At the bottom of the pile is an envelope with your handwriting on it. Why would you write me a note when you can text or call? 

Inside is a card with some tacky holiday scene on the front. Glitter scatters on my clothes and desk. 

“I knew you’d appreciate the gaudiness of this card. I am sending you this card as it is a week before Christmas and it appears I won’t be home for it. I do hope you are hard at work. I am beginning to think this was a stunt to get me out of the flat for good. Any case, for your gift (I don’t expect one in return) I have paid for 6 months of dairy delivery. You shall never run out of milk again. Merry Christmas, Lucy”

I smile as I reread your note. A gift that was useful and clever. But you are wrong, I don’t want you out of the flat. I’m working tirelessly to get you back. It would appear that I miss you. 

A gift this good deserves a response.

Thank you for the thoughtful gift. I have a few days to procure yours - SH

I wait for your reply while I make some tea and unwrap the plate of biscuits Mrs. Hudson has left for me. 

An hour maybe two passes without a response. Even when you are angry, you are timely. My phone rings. Lestrade. 

“Yes,” I say.

“Is Lucy with you?” He sounds agitated.

“No,” I feel defensive, if not guilty.

“She sent me a message that she was stopping by the flat for some things. Said you were there and not to worry. That was four hours ago. She’s not answering her phone or my texts,” he is out of breath.

Everything stops. Time, my breathing, my heart. I look around the flat, but nothing is out of place. 

“We did not speak today. That was not her that sent you that,” I swallow hard.

Normally, my heart would race in excitement. A kidnapping. That’s far more entertaining and challenging than simple theft or even a good old murder. A kidnapping means a timeline and lives is peril. But this is you and my heart races in pure terror.

“Where are you?” I demand.

“On my way to your place. There was nothing at my place,” he says. 

“Go to her work. Send your best detective to your house and your least annoying one here. I’m calling John.”

My head is whirling. I stare at my phone in the hopes that you message to tell me you just needed to get away. 

“John, someone has Lucy. Come straight away,” is all I manage to say when he answers.

While I pace our flat trying to focus on details and facts, my phone buzzes. 

Come find me

It’s from your phone, but not from you.


	14. Isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy meets her captors

Lucy

I try to open my eyes, but it’s useless against the scarf tied tightly around my eyes. I’m on a bed, I know that much. My bound hands are tied to a metal frame. It’s a thin mattress that creaks when I try to move. My legs are loosely bound so I can turn on my side when my back begins to hurt. My mouth was once gagged, but it was removed. I’m surprised, whoever did this wanted to be sure I couldn’t see anything. I must be someplace where no one could hear me if I scream. I decide to reserve my strength instead of hollering myself hoarse.

Despite the sheer terror I am experiencing, I try to calm myself. I listened to the noises around me. A distant train. Muffled voices from a nearby window. The echo of my own voice when I say my name quietly to get an idea of the size of the room. For a brief moment, I think how proud you would be of my deductive thinking. 

I was being careful as ascended the stairs of the tube. Greg’s flat was no more than a half block. The last thing I remember was someone asking me for time. How could that happen on a busy street? Maybe it was not as busy as I thought. It was after six o’clock. 

I am not sure how much time has passed. The first time I woke up, I had a screaming headache and felt groggy. The side of my neck stung from where I am guessing the needle stuck me. What was I injected with? I fell back to sleep. 

It must be day - the room feels warmer. I know you and Greg are looking for me, and if anyone can find me - it is you. Everything aches from lying in the same position for hours. I’m thirsty, hungry and ready to wet myself. As much as I do not want the person who did this to come back, I would love to be able to relieve my bladder. 

I try to rub my head against the arm to loosen my blindfold. I tried last night before my neck began to ache. Several locks clicking make me stop. 

“Hello?” I ask softly. “I need a bathroom.”

I am answered in a language I don’t recognize. Large rough hands release my arms and legs. I know better to fight or move. I can sense the size of my captor. 

Suddenly, I feel myself being lifted and carried away. Dear God, where am I going now? 

* * * * * * *

Sherlock

It’s been 48 hours since you’ve gone missing. There has been no ransom or contact from your kidnapper. It’s highly unusual. What if this has nothing to do with the break in or harassing emails?   
I fight off the fear in my head. I don’t sleep or eat. I just need to find you. 

You were snatched from the street as there was no evidence of you ever being home or at Lestrade’s.

“How are you?” John runs to keep up with my long strides. 

“Busy. I’m hoping the kidnappers have contacted Lestrade,” I say pushing my way through the doors of police headquarters. I ignore the jeers from Sally as I breeze past her. 

Without invitation, I barge into Lestrade’s office. “Do you have anything?”

He looks flustered, rubbing his forehead. “I just got a homicide that came in.”

“Do you have anything new on Lucy?” I loom over the scatter files on his desk.

“No, we haven’t been contacted,” he sighs. “You know you can’t look at those.”

“Since when have these been off limits?” I clasp my hands behind my back.

“I was hoping you could look into the homicide for me,” he shuffles through his pile. 

“If it is not connected, then no,” I state. 

“We believe it could be another one of your intruders,” he flips open to the grisly photos inside. 

A large man has taken a swan dive off a six story building. His head looks like a smashed watermelon. This is the second person connected with the break in to die, or be killed. Both deaths were supposed to look like suicides, but were clearly not. 

I wipe my brow. “How do we know he’s connected?”

“The tread on his shoes match the ones found in your flat,” he says. “We’ve sent the fibers to Molly.”

“Fine, call Molly and warn her I’m coming to examine the body,” I call as I head for the door.

“She’s already done that,” he says.

“Then I will do it correctly,” I snip. 

“Sherlock,” Lestrade stops me. “Who would want to hurt her?”

I feel John’s eyes turn to me. He and I have discussed at great length that this is not about you - it’s to get to me. But if I tell Lestrade that, what conclusion will he come to?

I drop my eyes to the photograph. “I’m not sure. Perhaps they think she knows something about my work.”

He chews on the corner of his bottom lip. “Perhaps.”

We stare at one another for a moment. 

“I should not have let her taken the Tube alone,” his voice breaks.

“No, you should not have. We moved her to your flat because it would be safe,” I say. 

“Okay, let’s go. Molly will be waiting for your effervescent charm,” John grabs my arm.

“You don’t think I’m involved in this, do you?” Lestrade frowns.

“It was one of your detectives that broke into our flat,” I move to his desk.

“I have heard some really outrageous theories from you, but this one takes the cake,” he is inches from me. 

I know he’s not involved, but I cannot help but thinking he is to blame for your disappearance. 

“Sherlock! Let’s go,” John says sharply.  
   
“Detective,” I nod curtly before sweeping out the door. 

“What was that?” John asks as we reach the outside.

“I had to be sure,” I shrugged.

“Do really think he’s to blame?” 

I stop. “We are both to blame. I sent her there. I endorsed it.”

“You can’t blame him or yourself,” he says soothingly.

“John, we have no idea the conditions she is being kept in, or if she’s alive at all. I got that one text, to which I replied - and nothing!”

My emotions are coming out from under me. John’s eyes are saucers, and I know he wants to make a statement about it. 

“Come on. There is much to be done. Perhaps this dead body helped kidnap her and will offer some clues to where she is,” I pull my collar against the wind. 

I hope this body has a tale to tell. 

* * * * * * * * *

Lucy

Since being taken, I’ve moved location twice. The second location was unbearably warm. I was tied to a chair, but given my first meal. Dry toast and black tea. The Russian burned my tongue and part of my chest as he attempted to help me drink the tea. He cursed and untied my hands. He told me in broken English that if I tried to remove my blindfold, he would kill me. Their anonymity was the key to my survival. I heard the click of a gun. That was enough for me to take heed. He let me feed myself and drink my tea before tying me to the chair again. 

I was moved to a third location. I could hear chatter, but in Russian. A woman’s voice was added to the mix. I was placed in a room with a nicer bed. My hands and feet were handcuffed, but I was free to move about to room. I slipped my blindfold up to find only a bed and chair. The walls were off white with no decorations. The only light came from a skylight overhead. 

The woman takes care of me. I slip on the blindfold when she knocks. Her English is a little better than the man’s. For breakfast, she brings me toast and tea. She makes it a bit too sweet, but I don’t dare complain. Lunch is always peanut butter. Dinner has been lentil soup, vegetable curry, and some rice. She tells me that I am a model guest, so she insists on giving me what they eat. She talks of her love for England. 

I finally ask her how long I’ll be here.

“I do not know.”

Who has me and why?

“I do not know.”

Will she help me escape?

“I cannot.”

I offer to pay her.

“It will not be enough.”

I stop asking questions.

The nights are the longest and the hardest. I can hear the telly from another room. It’s mostly in Russian. It provides me with some distraction other than my thoughts. 

I’ve written my farewell letters in my head. To my mum. To Greg. To you. Yours is the hardest. I’m a bit angry with you. If I had not moved in with you, I would not be here. If I stayed with you instead of going to Greg’s would I still be here?

My dreams are more disturbing. I’m running from you. I’m running to you. I’m hot and sweaty, and you are under me, naked and sweaty too. I wake up covered in sweat to an achy body and the darkness.  They must have put something in my evening tea besides honey.

I wonder what you are doing to locate me? Have you slept? Have you come close to finding me? Will you give up? Do you miss me?

* * * * * * *

Sherlock

I alternate between the microscope and my mobile. Sometimes, I stare it for hours willing a text to come. They come from John, Mycroft, Lestrade and even Irene. 

“How many have you sent?” John looks up from one of personnel folder we have ‘procured’. 

“Three,” I say. “No response.”

“I still think you should pay Irene a visit. I think she was jealous,” John offers.

“If it was her goal to win my favour, why would she deflect attention from herself to what she deems as her competition. That’s just based on your assumptions. I do not believe that Ms. Adler’s intentions are so….juvenile or amorous,” I say.

John frowns. “It should not be completely discounted.”

“No, this person means to get to me. But they aren’t playing or they would be trying to have me chase false leads. They haven’t asked for anything. Is it revenge? Revenge against what? My brilliance? None of the criminals I’ve placed have been released. So what is this about?” I stare past everything into the blurry space that is our flat. It’s been cold and quiet - I hate it.

A low rumble startles John. “Was that you?”

I don’t respond.

“When was the last time you ate?”

I roll my eyes. “How many times have we gone over this?”

John stalks into the kitchen. “Bloody hell! Everything has spoiled. Is this another one of your experiments?”

“No, they spoiled because I have not eaten them,” I call over my shoulder.

“Do I have to call your brother?” His head pokes out of the kitchen.

My phone buzzes. It’s from you. I hold my breath.

Check my email.

I rush to my laptop. I go to log in your email account. I curse when it comes up ‘invalid’. I forgot you changed it to Sherlockisanass. It is an email from your work account to your personal account. In the body of the email is a link with a video. I take a cleansing breath before I click on the link.

“Do you think these are too stale?” John asks.

“Shut up!” I yell.

John sees my face. “What is it? You’ve heard something.”

The link takes forever to load. Finally, it’s you in a small room asleep on a twin bed. Your hands and feet are bound with handcuffs and you’re blindfolded. You are in the same clothes as the day you disappeared. I cringe as I see the red welts on your wrists. There is no sound. I search the small room for anything that can clue me into where you are. The camera man pans slowly up and down your bare legs, hovers over your chest - lasciviously. I am just relieved to see the rise and fall of your chest.

The video cuts off abruptly. My phone buzzes again.

Do you miss me? Come find me.

Tell me where you are, I’ll come get you - SH

Soon, we’ll see each other soon.

I close my eyes. My head is thundering with so many thoughts and feelings, I cannot hear through the noise. 

You’ll need to schedule a date, I have a busy dance card - SH

I hope to instigate a time or day. 

Don’t get greedy. Soon.

I know to not push it further. 

I call Lestrade. “It’s Sherlock. Get over here now. I have something.”

I go to my hard drive where I find the video of you has been saved. I feared that it would encrypted. I try to focus on anything but you - your surroundings, the shadows of your videographer.   
I watch the video over and over. I have John watch it over and over. I attempt to trace the where the email came from. I don’t even hear Lestrade knock.

“Do you have something?” he bursts through, hair disheveled.

I consider tossing him my phone, but think better of it. Our texts have never been scandalous, but taken out of context, he may get the wrong impression of our relationship.

“I hacked into her email and there was a link to this,” I show him the video. I watch his hand fly to his mouth at the sight of you bound. His eyes tear up. 

“Did…did you get anything from this?” his voice is a whisper. 

“Nothing conclusive. According to the text that was sent, I shall be hearing from them, him…soon,” I cross my arms in front of me.

“You got a text?” Lestrade rubs his eyes.

“Yes,” I reluctantly hand my phone over so he can read our correspondence. 

“She signs her texts, so these are not from her,” he says.

“Obviously. Someone wants to reveal themselves to me,” I grab my phone back before you can browse further. 

“Sherlock, someone just delivered this,” Mrs. Hudson stands in the doorway. 

“Not now Mrs. Hudson,” I bellow returning to my laptop.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John says quietly. “A fruitbasket. Sherlock, is that odd?”

“It’s Christmas. It’s probably from Molly or someone,” I wave dismissively. 

“Sherlock, you should look at this,” his voice quivers. 

I look up to see him holding a basket wrapped in Christmas colors. Inside, most of the fruit resembles most of the food in my pantry - except one perfectly carved apple. 

* * * * * *  
Lucy

The door opens and shoes scrape against the floor. The chair slides to the bed. This person smells different from the man and woman. 

“Hello Lucy,” a man says.

“You’re new,” I say. 

A chuckle catches in his throat. “I guess you could say that. You can remove the blindfold; I don’t care if you see me.”

I lay still. My inability to spot my captors have kept me relatively safe. 

“Really, it’s okay,” he urges.

“If I see your face, you’ll kill me,” I say.

“Is that what they told you? No one is killing you,” he sounds amused.

I feel hands sit me up then slowly remove my blindfold. It takes a moment to adjust the light. Slowly, a slight man in khakis and a polo comes into view. He has a shock of black hair and tiny eyes. He is smiling, but that offers no comfort.

“So, they’ve been treating you well,” he asks.

“I’m fed and allowed to go to the bathroom,” I shrug. “The handcuffs hurt.”

“Yeah, sorry about those, but they have to stay on a little longer,” he shrugs.

I can tell that he is not sorry.

“How much longer will I be here?” I ask.

“Not long. I bet he’s looking hard for you. But I didn’t leave him a trail of breadcrumbs this time,” he giggles. 

I feel the fear rise up in me. For all his politeness, there is something disturbing.

“So this is about Sherlock then?”

He grins. “Isn’t it always? You’ve been his roommate. He’s always number one.”

“He’s just my flatmate,” I say.

His face wrinkles. “Flatmate,” he mimics in an over the top accent. “Love the way you guys talk.” 

His face falls serious. “I’ve seen you together. You are important to him so you are important to me.”

“The exploding computer, that was you?” 

He flashes a proud smile. “You guys needed a nudge.”

“What’s the plan then?” I ask.

“He’ll come for you and I’ll get him,” he shrugs casually.

I know he means to kill you. This is not a simple game of cat and mouse - lives hang in the balance. 

“And what happens to me?”

“What’s in it for me?” He clucks. “I like it - a gal who knows what she wants. I guess you won’t be needed once I have him.” He presses his finger to his chin. “What to do with you? Maybe you go back to your boring life?” His eyes wander over me. “Maybe you stay with me. You’re a looker. Could be fun.”

I swallow the lump in my throat.

“It’s too soon, I get that. Women liked to be wooed,” he leans forward and sniffs. “And darlin’, you smell. Would you like a shower?”

“Maybe,” I answer nervously.

He winks. “I won’t join you. But you want to look good when you see your Sherlock. I’ll have Yelena make sure you get cleaned up. Maybe some new clothes.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly. I know to be absolutely polite to this lunatic.

“Anytime, Lucy,” he says gravely.

It reminds me of our texts. Clearly he has read them, read into them. If he knows that much about me, he should know I’m with Greg. He is convinced there is something deeper between us. 

He stands to leave. “By the way, my name is Jim.”


	15. We two, risen from the dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets an old foe, with Lucy in the middle

Sherlock

A second note follows the rotten fruit basket the next morning. It includes a time and an address. Is it from the real Moriarty or a copycat? John had blogged enough about the case for anyone to attempt it. 

I spent the entire night trying to have Lestrade get an order to exhume Moriarty’s body only to learn it had been cremated in Ireland. I watch the video of you over and over. I study and test the apple carved with U O ME around it. This time, it is a large golden delicious. What could that mean? 

The note says: A double date. I’ll bring mine, if you bring yours - John. No one else. Not a word. No weapons.  
   
John conceals a gun anyway. He has one filled with blanks that can be confiscated. I decline carrying one as I’m not quite as proficient as John. I don’t need one turned on me or you.

John keeps stealing glances at me as we ride quietly in the taxi to the address I’ve been provided. 

My phone buzzes. “It’s Lestrade.”

“Are you going to answer?” John asks.

“Yes,” I answer. If I were to ignore it, he would know something is wrong and try to find me. That could complicate matters.

“I just got a message from the kidnappers,” he says. 

“You did?” I feign surprise.

“Yes, with an address and time,” he says. 

I glance at John. If I know Moriarty, he is sending Lestrade on a wild goose chase. He wants it to be an intimate affair.

“I’ll meet you there,” I lie. 

“So we’re on our own on this,” John asks when I end the call.

“I don’t want to agitate him, especially if it is Moriarty,” I answer.

“You are convinced, aren’t you? But you saw him die,” he says.  
   
“Yes, but I was dead once,” I raise an eyebrow. “Look who we are discussing.”

John takes a deep breath. “True. Are you ready for this?”

Was I ready to face the man who attempted, and nearly succeeded in ruining my life and the lives of the ones I care about? Was I ready to see you in his clutches? Especially since I am sure he knows your worth to me. 

“Yes,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

“We’re here.”

 

* * * * * * * 

Lucy

I am allowed to shower, finally. I expect to put on the clothes I’ve had for a week or to be given some sort of used clothing. To my alarm, there is a pair of my jeans and the jumper my mother bought for me on the bed when I’m let back into the room. How did Jim get by you?

“These are mine,” I comment to the woman Jim called Yelena. 

She nods curtly. Something is in the air as she has not spoken to me much in the last few days. 

I’m shackled and blindfolded soon after dressing. I’m marched down a hall and shoved into a car. Perhaps this is the day Jim talked about. That doesn’t offer me any sense of comfort. He means to do you harm, and I might be next. I’ve seen his face; there is no need to keep me around after that. I hope I get to see you one more time before I die. I’m guessing that whatever showdown he has planned, I will be made to witness it. Maybe he’ll kill me first and make you watch. I pray that he’s not that sadistic.

I regret playing along, thinking I would be safe. Jim made some crude suggestions as to my staying with him after all this. I doubt this. Whatever is to take place, it will not be pleasant and I should have fought harder. 

We don’t drive for long. When I get out of the car, I sense it’s almost dusk. I smell chlorine in the cold air. The male Russian and Yelena whisper.

Jim snaps, “Nyet!” 

Everyone is silent. Our footsteps echo through some kind of concrete hallway. We are near a pool? The smell of chlorine is overwhelming. We stop. Far away, I hear whispering. It sounds like John. I hold my breath to hear better …..and your voice. 

I’m overjoyed and terrified in the same heartbeat. Will I be saved? Will we survive?

“Okay,” Jim says lowly.

The click of guns cocking turns my blood to ice. 

A door opens and I’m hit with a chemical smell. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Jim walks ahead of me. Someone is holding me back - I’m guessing out of your sight. 

“You’re dead,” I hear you say. 

“So are you. Look at us, risen like a phoenix,” Jim smiles manically. “We are still so alike.”

“Where is she?” You hiss.

“How sweet. All this concern for her. She’s quite something,” Jim coos.

He says something in Russian. I feel a gun press against my side as I’m pushed forward. I hear a gasp - John. Another gun presses into my other side as Jim takes possession of me. His hand tugs at the blindfold. 

It takes a moment to acclimate to the blue lighting of the pool. My first sight is your face, paler than usual with fear.

“Sherlock.”

* * * * * * * * *  
Sherlock

 

Of course he would request that we meet here. This was the site of our first face off. 

“Why here?” John whispers.

“It’s symbolic. He tried to blow you up here. I wonder what his plans for Lucy are,” I look around for the same sharpshooters as the last time. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” he announces as he walks out of the same door in the same suit.

“You’re dead,” I say.

“So are you. Look at us, risen like a phoenix,” Moriarty smiles manically. “We are still so alike.”

“Where is she?” I demand.

“How sweet. All this concern for her. She’s quite something,” Moriarty clucks.

You appear, blindfolded. A large thug escorts you to Moriarty with a gun sticking into your ribs. He produces a gun to jab into the other side as you wince. His fingers peel away your blindfold. 

“Sherlock,” your voice is soft but even. Your eyes are a mixture of relief and terror.  
   
“But I watched you die.” His grip are bruising your arms. Your eyes stay on mine.

“As he watched you die,” Moriarty nods to John. “But, he’s not your favorite anymore, is he?”

My lips scowl as he buries his nose into the nape of your neck. 

“No, this one is much prettier. I concur. Have you had her yet? She smells delicious. Can you tell me if she tastes as good?” he purrs against your skin.

You struggle against his touch. An aggravated whimper escapes behind your pursed lips.

“It’s me you want, so just take me. Let her go,” I say evenly. 

“Oh I will. But first, I am going to take what you are too chaste to take,” his tongue slides up your neck before giving a small nibble. Tears well up in your eyes. 

The last time I felt this level of rage was when I saw Mrs. Hudson bloodied in her own home at the hands of American goons. I would say that I surpassed that rage when I saw his hands on you.   
John has drawn his gun in response to the ones pointed at you and us.

“Tsk tsk, John. Surely we can solve this like civilized men,” he scoffs.

John snorts his derision.

“Give me the gun, John,” he demands.

“You give me yours,” John tries to steady his voice.

Moriarty throws his head back in wild laughter. “Now I know why you keep him around. He’s a funny guy.”

I nod to John to kick the gun over. He pretends to protest, then places the gun on the tile floor. With his foot, John kicks the gun towards Moriarty.

My face never changes. Just because John has another weapon, I do not feel at ease with Moriarty’s gun in your ribs. I glance around and do not see the red dots of sharpshooters. There is just Moriarty, his thug and us. Knowing him as I do, there has to be more to this. Unless he’s lost his spark in the last few years. I expected something far more complicated than this. 

His hand travels down your body suggestively. A pit forms in my stomach - mixture of rage, embarrassment and jealousy. You hold still eyes on mine. I know you want to flinch. You don’t pretend to enjoy it, he would never believe that.

Reaching around, he sticks his gun in his waistband as he picks up John’s gun. After examining it, he sticks it against your ribs.

Moriarty fires a few round into your side. Though they are blank, you buckle under the force of the gun. 

“Now where is your real gun, John?” He shouts angrily.

“Just stop and let her go,” I yell.

“I’m going to tear her apart from the inside out while you watch, Holmes,” he hisses.

The sudden clatter of several feet distracts Moriarty. John pulls the gun from his back as Moriarty’s heavy raises his at John. 

“Drop it!” I hear Lestrade shout. 

Then shots are fired. 

“Lucy,” I lunge towards you.

Moriarty releases you to get his gun and you dive into the pool despite being shackled at your hands and feet. Thinking of nothing else, I dive in after you. I can barely make out your sinking form under the water. Bullets whizz between us. I think of nothing else but ensuring your safety. I dive deeper to avoid the impact when one passes close to my eye. I feel a sharp sting, but I do not stop swimming. I can still get to you. I see you wriggle, trying to swim to the surface. Your arms stretch in front of you, as you attempt a dolphin kick.

It’s gets harder to swim in my suit and shoes, but I finally reach you. I slide one arm around you as I furiously kick us to the surface. 

There is a lot of commotion and noise as we break the surface. Voices echoing but no shooting. You cough as I lead you to the side to hold on. For the first time, I get a close look at the bruises and red marks on your wrists from the handcuffs. 

“Are you okay?” I smoothe the wet hair from your face.

Coughing, you nod.

“Where is he?” I ask to John who crouches beside us.

“In the confusion, he got away,” John says. 

“Did anyone get hurt?” I ask.

I feel your cold fingers on my cheek. “You did. You’re bleeding.”

I touch my face. “I must have been grazed.” I look back at your blue eyes, still wide with fear. “We need to get you out of here and to a hospital.”

“I’m not hurt,” you start to shiver.

“Nonsense. You are going. I want to be sure you are fine,” I state. 

John and another officer help us out of the water. There we stand dripping and shivering. You’ve lost weight. Your wet clothes cling to a tinier frame. What did they do to you?

You stare at no one else but me for a moment before you toss your bound hands over my head. 

“Thank you for getting me,” you say against my neck. While the rest of your body is cold, your lips are warm against my neck. My body shivers.

So many thoughts and emotions course through my body like a freight train that I’m afraid I’ll break at any moment. You are alive and in my arms - that has to be enough for now. 

“Lucy!” Lestrade calls. He’s back from his chase. 

I feel you hesitate in leaving, but you do, and collapse in his arms. 

* * * * * * *

 

Sherlock

It takes a long time for your shackles to be removed. The doctor and nurses treat your sores as we wait for an industrial clamp. I insist that I will not let you out of my sight so they dress my scrape with peroxide in your room. I wince and berate the nurse for her lack of bedside manner. Despite everything you’ve been through, you grab my hand and smile.

“Just let her do her job,” you say.

I don’t have time to parcel through all the things in my head. Moriarty escaped without a scratch. No one is safe until he is dead. 

Lestrade interviews you in the room with John and me. You were moved three times. You only knew of three captors, a Russian woman named Yelena, a Russian male and Moriarty. You were fed three meals a day, granted they weren’t much beyond toast, sandwiches and rice. The clothes you wear now are not the ones you had the day you disappeared. 

“These were at the flat,” you look at me. “He or someone went into my room and took them. They went through my drawers and took them.”

My blood ices. When did he come into our house? He could have just done away with me right there. But no, he wanted you involved. 

“You cannot go back there,” Lestrade states.

“What?” You say.

“She was taken under your watch, Inspector,” I snarl. 

“I’ll post someone outside and have an officer on her at all times,” he protests.

“I don’t work and can offer my undivided attention,” I say.

“You work for me! Won’t you busy looking for him?” Lestrade spits.

“Greg, I want to go home. Besides, if Jim wants me to get to him, he will get me no matter what. Maybe if I’m at Baker Street, it will end sooner,” you say plainly.

“You’re offering yourself up as bait?” His eyes are wide.

“I want to live without fear again. I’m sure both Sherlock and I are targets now,” you look over at me.

Somehow, I’ve done this to you. I should send you away, but it will only delay the inevitable. As you stated, this needs to be over, and we must face him together. 

“If that’s what you want Lucy,” Lestrade relents. “I’ll be there, too.”

Delightful.

“How did Lestrade know where we are?” I ask John in the hallway.  
   
“I texted him the correct address and told him to be stealth,” John says. 

“Obviously, they didn’t understand that part of your message,” I sigh.

“It did provide a distraction for Lucy to get away,” he offers. 

“And for Moriarty,” I point out.

“Looks like Lucy is coming home,” he attempts to suppress a grin.

“Yes, with Lestrade. Won’t that be cozy,” I quip. 

But, you are coming home. It shouldn’t fill me with such contentment, yet it does. 

* * * * * *

Lucy

The familiar smells of our flat greet me as I open the door. The Christmas tree twinkles in the window like I never left. As I move into the den, a rather unpleasant scent begins to assault my nose. Rotting food.

“I’m sorry, the flat is in a state,” you apologize. “I didn’t shop while you were gone.”

“Or clean or do laundry.” I spy some dirty tea cups crusted with residue and a pile of rumpled clothes next to the couch. 

You push past me. “Let me clean the kitchen before you go in.” 

This must be a new Sherlock as you would never offer to clean. I should be kidnapped more often.

“He watered that tree every day,” John says quietly. “He didn’t want you to come home to a dead tree.”

“He said that?”  
   
John nods. “He did. Not sure he ate while you were gone, and he certainly didn’t clean after himself…. But he was concerned for the tree.”

A shiver runs down my spine. I know you care more than you let on. Just the look on your face when you saw me said what no one dare uttered. I wonder if Greg noticed. He seemed fairly oblivious. Or perhaps his insistence on staying here was not protection from Jim, but something else. 

“I’m going to get cleaned up,” I say. I still smell of chlorine from the pool. 

You clean as best you can while I stand under a scalding shower. I attempt to burn a few layers of skin off and scrub myself red. My room seems familiar yet odd. Between my time at Greg’s and captivity, it feels like ages ago since I’ve slept in my own bed. I hear you pace the floor of the living room as you pour over every bit of evidence. Meanwhile, I rearrange my room and clothes. Jim or one of his men have been here and I need it to be different. 

You knock on my door frame. ”Fancy some tea?”

“Are you asking because you want me to make it?” I grin.

“No, I made some and was going to share. I did send John for milk,” a wry smile twists on your lips.

I chuckle for the first time in awhile. It’s nice to be home. “I will have some. Thank you.”

We are painfully polite tonight as we move around one another. There is an electricity that exists when people share peril. Perhaps it was like this with Irene once. 

“Any leads or ideas?” I ask.

“Nothing concrete. I hope to find him before he strikes again,” you respond gravely. 

I touch my bruised side where Jim shot the blanks into me. I had some burns and bruises from the force. I’d be dead if John’s gun had been loaded.

I feel your hand on my arm. “You should get some rest. I nailed your windows shut. I’m right here and not going anywhere.”

Greg will be along soon too. I nod and retire to my room with the door open. I hear your footsteps every so often and know you are checking on me. 

Sometime after midnight, I hear voices - yours and Greg’s. You speak softly, but I can tell you don’t want him here. I hear the difference in his footsteps. He tries to be quiet as he closes the door behind him, but he stumbles as he undresses. I’ve moved things around and he can’t find anything. Though I feel conflicted, it’s nice to not be alone. I allow myself to press against him.   
Eventually I drift off to the sound of his breathing and your pacing.

 

* * * * * *

Sherlock

 

I don’t notice that John has entered the flat and has been staring at me for fifteen minutes. When he clears his throat, I start from my daze.

“John, how long have you been here?”

“Long enough to know something is wrong,” he says.

I frown. “You know when I go to my mind palace I’m oblivious to everything.” 

“Good think I’m not Moriarty then,” he looks over my shoulder. “Your computer is not even on.”

“I wanted peace while I thought.”

He glances over his shoulder. “Where’s Lucy?”

“It’s her first day back at work,” I stand to make tea or something.

“You let her off alone?” 

“Don’t be daft. Lestrade escorted her. She is to video conference me every hour.” 

“Isn’t that extreme?” He raises his eyebrows.

“Absolutely not,” I scoff. “He could have killed her. I wanted her to take more time off. Lestrade said I was being unreasonable.”

How could he be so casual with your life? And this from a man who claims to love you. I was not certain he has your best interest at heart. 

“He’s been staying here, right?” John asks.

“Most nights, yes. I’m about to ask for money for the bills.”

“How is that going?” I note a conspiratorial tone in his voice.

“Delightful. Cozy,” I growl. “I barely want to share my space with Lucy let alone her Inspector boyfriend. I thought she had better taste than that.”

“Like….” He trails off.

I shrug knowing exactly what he wants. “Maybe you if you weren’t taken with Mary.”

He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “How long will it take for you to admit that you have feelings for her?”

I roll my eyes. “It’s like Ms. Adler all over.”

“No, no. It’s different. I’ll never understand what went on there or what you ever saw. No, this is different. This is the closest you’ve shown real and deep emotion,” he says.

“Mycroft always said caring was a huge disadvantage. I saw it with Ms. Adler.” 

 

“How is caring ever a disadvantage?”

“Because I didn’t see this coming. My brain is supposed to be for useful things, but lately it’s filled with all this…all this…other stuff. I should have anticipated that if I could fake my death, so could he. And he’d go after her, " I growl.

“How were you to know? You must stop blaming yourself," John says.

“John, he knows I care. And not just have a heart, that I care about her a great deal. He went through her to get to me.” I run my fingers through my hair.

“Sherlock…are you…no, you couldn’t…could you?” He looks at me with his head cocked to the side. 

“I need her to be safe, John. I can’t say more than that right now.” I rub my eyes.

“Christ Sherlock, when was the last time you slept?” He peers into my face.

“I bet he sleeps therefore I will not until he is dead,” I hiss.

“Are you out to kill him?” His voice catches.

“I need to be sure he will not bother us again. I don’t trust the authorities or any jail to hold him. I barely trust the angel of death,” I say.

I hear stomping up the stairs. Two seconds later, the door flies open to your frown. 

“Where’s Lestrade?” I ask.

“Work,” you slam the door.

“How did you get home? Were you on your own?” 

“I took a taxi. But I had to leave since I was sacked,” you flop on the couch. 

“They fired you? On what grounds?” John sits beside you.

“Job abandonment. Apparently being held hostage does not matter to them. I should have had Yelena or Jim call in for me,” you growl.

“You hated that job,” I state. “Perhaps you will work on your novel or something really useful.”

You level a glare that cuts me in two. “I hated the job, but rather enjoyed the paycheck. You know what this means, right?” 

John and I exchange a glance.  
   
“I can’t afford to live here. I lost weeks of wages. There is nothing left in my account. I cannot pay rent or get the shopping. I have to move out,” you bury your head in your hands.

John motions for me to do something comforting. 

I shrug as this is not expertise. I move to you and pat your shoulder. “Don’t worry. You are not going anywhere. We will figure this out. Mrs. Hudson will not toss you out on the street, and I would not let her. You will stay with me where you are safe. We’ll sort this out.”

I know what I need to do.  


	16. Some day soon, we all will be together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Lucy host Christmas Eve

Lucy

The sound of an animal wailing from the living room wakes me from a sound sleep. I have visions of you battling a dog or a cat or something. Instead, I find you sprawled on the couch twisting and calling out in a strange Baltic language. Your head jerks from side to side as dark curls plaster to your face. 

Carefully, I attempt to wake you from your nightmare. 

“Sherlock,” I place my hands on your shoulders and shake you. 

Nothing, but you are muttering in English now. “Get away. Stay away. Leave.”

I shake you with a little more force. “Sherlock!”

Your eyes flutter wildly under your lids. They squeeze and release. Slowly, you are coming out of it. 

“Holmes!” I yell sharply.

Your eyes fly open in terror and you shrink against the couch. 

“It’s just me. It’s Lucy….you are having a dream,” I say soothingly. 

You look around the dark room, your chest heaving as you gulp for air. 

“You’re okay. It’s okay,” I brush back the hair from your damp forehead. 

I’ve never seen you in such a state. Even after the flat had been vandalized while I was inside, or when Moriarty held me hostage – you appeared in control. Right now, you are not yourself and I think that terrifies you more than your dream. 

Your lips move, but there is no sound. Your blue shirt is drenched in sweat.  
   
“Shhh…just get your bearings. You are home, and it’s just us,” I say.

Your eyes relax for a moment. Without realizing it, I am sitting beside you on the couch. I feel your hand rest on my waist while the other rubs your forehead. 

“Are you okay now? Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.

“I-I-I just….and then,” you whisper.

I can barely understand or hear you. I lean in close, too close. Our noses bump, and I’m very aware of your grip on my hip. I’m instantly reminded of the night we danced. I felt your breath on my face as I do now. Your lips were parted in anticipation of something as your gaze bore down on me. Your heart races under me. You have never looked so vulnerable or beautiful as you do in this moment. We both freeze for a second, perhaps out of fear, or to savour our closeness. It feels like forever since I last blinked. 

“Lucy,” you whisper.

“Yes, Sherlock,” I hold my breath. Your full lips look so inviting to me, but I will not make the first move towards a kiss. 

A thud hits the floor beside the couch. Quickly, I sit up and the spell is broken. I see that a gun has dropped from your side.

“Were you sleeping with a gun?” I ask.

“I wasn’t meant to be sleeping at all,” you prop yourself up. 

I peer into your face and notice the dark circles under your usually youthful eyes. I have no idea how you can manage looking so young when you work so hard. It must be that narcissism is actually youth’s elixir. 

“When was the last time you slept?” I ask.

You frown. “Just now. Isn’t that what you just woke me from?”

Ah, there is the Sherlock I know and loathe. 

I stand. “Before this time. When was the last time you slept for longer than a few hours?”

You rub your eyes with palms of your hand. “I don’t know. When did you disappear?”

“Is that what the gun is for?”

“I’m trying to keep you safe,” you say defiantly. “I don’t want anything to happen under my watch.”

“He won’t strike with me again. He’ll go after John or Mrs. Hudson,” I shrug.

I don’t want you to know how terrified I was while with that monster. How I considered fleeing to the country with my sister, but I knew he’d find me. And I wasn’t sure you could get to me fast enough. Greg said he would come with me, he would take leave. I know that I’m safest near you. 

Your gaze is far off. “He’s weaker now or you’d all be under the gun. Maybe you are.” You look at me. “But you’ve caught his interest. Is it that you are that interesting or does he think you are the way to get to me…above all the others?”

“He must have seen us at the ball and got the wrong idea. If he is as good as he is, surely he knows I’m with Greg,” I say. “Perhaps if I stayed there, he’d understand that to hurt me, it wouldn’t be the end of you.”

Something flashes across your face – anger, confusion – I can’t tell. There is an elephant in this living room tonight, and it’s not just the tusks tucked away in the corner. We will probably dance around this until Moriarty kills one of us or drives it out you. 

“I’m not taking any chances with anyone’s life,” you grab the gun off the floor. 

“Mycroft was right, you do have a heart,” my voice catches in my throat.

“Maybe so, but he cannot know that, or I cannot help us,” you say.

By ‘us’ – I’m not sure if you mean the collective or just the pair of us. 

* * * * * * 

Sherlock

The mist is dense like an old movie. I can barely make out the two forms before me. I hear snarling, like a large dog or something larger. In the fog, you whimper while Moriarty grunts. You are here somewhere but I can’t find you. My imagination goes to dark places, seeing his hands on you - leaving bruises and God knows what else. Red eyes glow in the dark. Whatever the beast is, it’s protecting Moriarty. I need to kill it to get to you.

“Sherlock,” I hear you whisper.

“Get away. Stay away. Leave,” I command the large dog. 

Its paws clamp on my shoulders.

“Sherlock!” You call.

The fog lifts. I’m not outside but inside and it’s incredibly hot. My eyes open slowly. 

“Holmes!” Your sharp voice jolts me awake.

I jump as my eyes try to focus. There is no dog or beast. There is no Moriarty. 

“It’s just me. It’s Lucy, you are having a dream,” your voice is soothing. 

Your hand feels cool against my hot skin as you brush my forehead.

“You’re okay. It’s all right,” you hush me.

I try to speak but nothing comes out. I glance around, then up into your eyes. My heart thunders against my breastbone. I lick my dry lips. I’ve experienced nightmares before. This is not the first time I’ve awakened in a sweat. Somehow your presence calms and excites me. Your fingers rake through my hair.

“Shhh…just get your bearings. You are home, and it’s just us.” You sit beside me. 

Despite everything that’s been done to you, you comfort me in a way that I failed to comfort you. My fingers brush the silk fabric of your pajama bottoms. You are so warm underneath. I can’t look away.

“Are you okay now? Do you want to talk about it?” You lean closer.

“I-I-I…and then..,” I babble incoherently. From the dream? From the moment and the space between us slowly disappearing?

My hand curls around the curve of your hip, willing you stay. Daring you to move closer. Our noses bump, and I know my pulse is giving me away. As your hand rests on my thundering chest, I take in your scent. Lestrade is not here tonight. A hunger flares up inside my stomach and radiates lower. I’m no longer afraid of the phantom images in my dream, but of the feeling welling up inside me. 

If I lift my head, I’ll feel your lips again. I remember how they felt against my neck the night I pulled you from the pool. 

Do you want this too? What am I doing? This is not me. But what if it could be?

“Lucy,” I say.

“Yes, Sherlock.” Your voice is so tender.

Your full lips look so inviting to me, but I will not make the first move towards a kiss.

I shift my weight, and the gun clunks to the floor. I had forgotten I had it with me. Suddenly I’m chilled by your absence as you sit up.

“Were you sleeping with a gun?” You frown.

“I wasn’t meant to be sleeping at all.” I sit up as well. 

Whatever moment we shared or were about to share is over. We are back to being Sherlock and Lucy. I rub my forehead. I must have been mad to allow a silly romantic notion enter my head. Those thoughts put you in danger before.

“When was the last time you slept?”You study my tired face.

It’s a ridiculous question as you just woke me up. “Just now. Isn’t that what you just woke me from?”

You stand. “Before this time. When was the last time you slept for longer than a few hours?”

“I don’t know. When did you disappear?” It feels like I have not slept since the day you moved into my life.

“Is that what the gun is for?” Your arms cross in front of you.

“I’m trying to keep you safe,” I say defiantly. “I don’t want anything to happen under my watch.”

Lestrade would love to take you away from Baker Street, but he couldn’t keep you safe in his home. And I don’t want Moriarty behind bars, I want him dead.

“He won’t strike with me again. He’ll go after John or Mrs. Hudson.”

You attempt to put on a brave face for me, yet I see under all that bravado, and you are scared like I am.

“He’s weaker now or you’d all be under the gun. Maybe you are.” You look at me. “But you’ve caught his interest. Is it that you are that interesting or does he think you are the way to get to me; above all the others?”

“He must have seen us at the ball and got the wrong idea. If he is as good as he is, surely he knows I’m with Greg,” you shrug. “Perhaps if I stayed there, he’d understand that to hurt me, it wouldn’t be the end of you.”

“I’m not taking any chances with anyone’s life,” I pluck the gun from the floor.

“Mycroft was right, you do have a heart,” you say softly.

“Maybe so, but he cannot know that, or I cannot help us,” I sigh.

You stare at me for what seems to be forever. I can’t read your mind, I never could. I once thought you might be a simple girl with your shopping, vapid friends, and infantile suitors. Somewhere   
along the way, something changed. While you may not be the brightest, you are clever, witty and sometimes - intoxicating.

“We should go to bed,” you say. 

I feel flush at the thought. I know you mean something completely different, but for a second, I visualize you in my arms. 

“You’re right,” I nod. “I’m no good on sleep deprivation.” 

I can blame that on all these odd thoughts twirling on my head.

Your hand rests on my arm. “Goodnight Sherlock.”

You pause for a moment before you go up to your room. When Lestrade is not here, you leave the door open. I think we both feel safer if nothing is between us. 

I check the doors and windows before I go to my room. The hall light illuminates your sleeping form. I gaze longer than I should before retiring to my cold bed. Usually, I enjoy the sensation of cool sheets. Tonight, I shiver unable to feel warm. 

My dreams are barbed wire - sharp and tangled. I see your hair in my hands, your skin against mine, Moriarty, the pool, Lestrade, and Irene.

* * * * * * *  
John Watson 

The flat is alight with the glow of the fire and Christmas lights on the mantle. The tree twinkles in the window. It’s homier than I’ve ever seen it, and I know it’s because of Lucy. Dressed in a skirt and pale jumper, she refills drinks and sets out food on the table. I watch your eyes follow her for moments at a time, before you return to gaze out the window, playing your violin. With a virtuoso’s precision, you play ‘Ava Maria’. She stops to listen for moment, a small smile on her lips. We applaud when you are done.

“I love that song,” she sighs.

“I know,” you respond before playing “Oh Holy Night” - another of her favourites. 

I wonder how Greg doesn’t see this - the small glances and smiles. Maybe because she sits beside him and talks lowly in his ear. He’s too distracted to notice your mouth twitch in disapproval.   
Perhaps he thinks it’s your commentary on affection in general and not specifically that vexes you so. 

Molly enters in a revealing black dress. She’s had her hair and make-up done professionally. She claims she has another party to attend, but you and I know this is all for your benefit. She looks disappointed to see Greg with Lucy - he was her back- up plan. She is delighted to be the only female besides Mrs. Hudson and Mary. The year Irene turned up just about had her in tears. 

Mary nudges me when you glance at Lucy. As my fiancée, I have intimated my suspicions to her. While you don’t think she’s very clever, she’s very observant. 

Your eyes soften in a way I’ve only seen a few times as she hands you a glass of champagne. 

“Let’s have a toast,” Greg suggests. 

We all grab a glass. You already look bored. I can only imagine what’s going through your head.

“I think we can all agree it’s been an interesting year,” Greg says. He turns to Lucy. “Whatever brought you into our lives, I think we are richer for it.”

You and Lucy share a glance. 

“I know we don’t know the next year holds,” he starts. “But I want to be more a part of it.”

Greg drops to one knee. Lucy’s eyes widen. The look on her face does not speak of joy, but terror.

Greg produces a small box from his suit pocket. I watch your jaw clench as you shift uncomfortably. The champagne flute is close to shattering in your grip.

“I know this is fast, but when you were taken from me, I knew that I always want you by my side,” he holds the box to Lucy.

Her eyes glance around the room at all the gaping mouths. They rest on you and your flaring nostrils. Why aren’t you objecting?

“Lucy, will be my wife?” He opens the box to reveal a diamond larger than he can afford. 

“Wow Greg, I didn’t see this coming,” she stammers. Her desperate eyes look to you. 

You could have sent her any message in that moment. I know she was searching for it. Instead, your eyes don’t meet her gaze. You stare at the floor and pretend to be annoyed by the sudden burst of romance. 

A smile spreads across her face as she switches her gaze from you to Greg. 

“Yes Greg, I will marry you,” she says. I pick up an underlying sadness in her voice. 

“Cheers,” you bellow with a forced smile. “To the happy couple.” 

In one gulp, you swallow the entire glass of champagne. Your eyes ice over as Greg slips the ring on Lucy’s finger. 

I want to stand in the middle of the room and start shouting at both of you. I have never met two people as stubborn as you both in my life. Mary and a reluctant Molly flutter over to gush over the ring. I stand to shake Greg’s hand. You sit on front of your laptop. I know you want to avoid the scene, and you start clicking away. Your face darkens as you read.

“What’s wrong?” I ask lowly.

“Look,” you point to an email.

‘I guess congratulations are in order. Why aren’t you the groom? You must be heartbroken. She broke my heart too. I thought we had something special. Don’t worry. The marriage will never happen, I’ll see to that. Tootles, JM’

“Say nothing,” you whisper as you close your laptop. 

With a deep breath, you paint a happy expression on your face. 

“Lestrade,” you offer your hand. 

“Thanks Sherlock. If she hadn’t moved in here, I might not have ever met her,” he beams.

Your eyes switch to her and the air turns heavy. 

“She’s quite a woman,” your voice sounds almost…tender. Your lips brush her cheek. “Congratulations. Make her happy, she deserves it.”

As you walk away, Lucy’s mouth hangs open as if it wants to say something. You grab your overcoat from the rack.

“Where are you going?” She steps forward.

“Family matter. It is Christmas,” you say pulling your collar around your face. 

Before anyone can protest, you are gone. 

“Is it her?” Molly asks. 

“Who?” I ask.

“That Irene woman. Is it her?” She wrings her hands.

I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so.”

Taking my phone from my pocket, I send a message.

‘It could be a danger night - JW’

* * * * * * * *

Sherlock

 

Mycroft does not look up as I sit across from him. He continues to stare at his paper, but does not read it. I know it is one of the games he plays to feel superior to me. We both know that is not true. 

When he feels he has me wait long enough, he looks up. “We’ll, what do I owe this pleasure? Are you here to give me my Christmas gift?”

I pat my coat pocket. “It seems I have forgotten it.”

He tucks his paper away and folds his hands in his lap. “What do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“Though it pains me say it, I need your help,” I say. 

Mycroft gasps. “It is a Christmas miracle. Did the great Sherlock Holmes just ask for my help?”

“Are you done?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Probably not, but go on,” he smirks. 

“As you must know, Moriarty has returned,” I start.

“Yes, is your flatmate all right?”

“Yes,” I swallow hard. “She’s engaged to be married.”

Mycroft pouts. “Ouch. To the Inspector?”

I nod curtly. “Moriarty just emailed a threat on her life to me. He has a camera in my house again.”

“Are we sure it’s him? Records show he was cremated in Ireland,” he dusts a speck a lint from his suit.

“I saw him.”

He rolls eyes.

“Fine. John and Lucy saw him as well.”

“John would follow you off a roof. Lucy, she has no alliance to you,” Mycroft says. “So, what is it you think I can do about your little problem?”

I coil up inside ready to strike. I know he is being condescending to provoke me. Years ago proved that I had something Mycroft did not - emotions. I damned them. I have tried to suppress them, but once you let them in there is no going back. It’s my Achilles heel; and Mycroft and Moriarty know it. 

“I need all the files you keep on Moriarty,” I state. He opens his mouth to deny their existence. “You have them and I need them. Anything to give me the slightest edge.”

Mycroft closes his eyes. “Fine.”

“And one more thing,” I stand.

“Yes?”

“I need you to secure my immunity should he turn up dead,” I pull my coat on.

“It sounds like you are planning a murder,” his brow furrows.

“I can’t have him hurting those associated with me. There is only one way I can be assured of that.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Mycroft nods.

“Merry Christmas,” I leave.


	17. The fire in her eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get crowded at 221B Baker Street

Sherlock

The rain pelts against the windows on another dreary late December morning. You flip the pages of the today’s damp newspaper as you sip your tea. I cannot help but notice the garish sparkle off your finger. It annoyingly flashes and distracts me from the local news. I should be scouring the pages for any sign of Moriarty lurking in the evil doings of others. Not reflecting on Lestrade’s proposal and how I froze. 

What could I say? Marry me? That would be ridiculous, and untrue. That is not what I want. I just don’t think you should marry him. 

We say nothing, comfortable in our quiet. It used to be this way before Lestrade took up residency in our home. At least he stopped snoring a while ago. How you sleep with all that noise….

“Are you finished with that bit?” I point to paper you’ve laid aside.

“Yes, go ahead,” you nod.

“And this?” I point to the uneaten half of your English muffin smeared with black cherry jam.

You smile. “You can have that too.”

See, domestic bliss. 

A loud yawn precedes Lestrade stumbling out of your room. At least he wore running pants this morning. I did not need another morning in just his boxers. 

As he makes his way to the kitchen, he drops a kiss on your head, as if you were a child. How do you tolerate him? You don’t even glance at him. You smirk at the sour look I must be displaying. 

We ignore him as he hums around the kitchen. I continue to eat your breakfast feeling slightly satisfied that I really took his half. He leans in the doorway, stirring his tea. 

“Dreadful day out there. I wish I didn’t have to work,” he says pointlessly.

“Don’t you have to keep us safe, Inspector?” I raise an eyebrow.

He huffs as he sips his tea. I watch his face pale before he spits his tea all over the floor. “What the…?”

“Did you use the milk in the back?” you glance up.

“I didn’t see any other milk in there,” he sputters. 

We exchange a grin.

“That’s part of Sherlock’s experiments. Never take the milk in the back,” you say.

I shrug innocently. “She knows.”

“How am I to know that?” he asks.

“Do you have sense of smell? It’s been there for 3 months,” I say.

“You have preserved it well,” you offer. “It’s still in liquid form.”

“Clearly it tastes spoiled,” I nod, barely containing the elation I feel. 

Lestrade storms into the kitchen and runs the faucet. You and I chuckle as we go about our morning reading.

* * * * * * *

Lucy

 

I look down at the diamond sparkling on my finger. I was engaged. What was I thinking? Marriage?

Greg is a wonderful man - loving, kind. He is all the things I want - all the things you are not. Lately, you have shown me glimmers of a different Sherlock. You have been less abrasive and almost kind. I remember the fear in your eyes when Moriarty stuck a gun in my side. I felt your heart race as I moved closer when you had the nightmare. I could sense there was something more you wanted. I will never forget the blank expression on your face when Greg dropped to one knee Christmas Eve. 

Yet in the days since then, you’ve been withdrawn. 

It’s New Year’s Eve and soon it will be midnight. Against your wishes, Greg has taken me out for a late dinner to celebrate the new-year and our engagement. To my surprise, John and Mary join us. John inquires where you are. 

“Moping,” Greg says. “He thinks I’m being irresponsible by having her out.”

I see a darkness behind John’s eyes. He must know something about my safety that I do not. 

“I think he’s happy to have the flat to himself,” I shrug.

“Hopefully he’s not shooting holes in the walls because of boredom,” John says. “Mrs. Hudson was not pleased.”

Only John and I know your moods. In fact, we have both seen a side no one else has seen. John once told me that he saw tears in your eyes. I have not seen that, but I know I saw something incredibly human flash in your eyes one night.

The waitress refills our glasses. Lately, I’ve been suspicious of strangers. It must be your influence. I wait for everyone to take a sip before I join them. I will not sit with my back to the door or a window. I look everyone squarely in the eye, waiting for a sign that I’m in danger. I would never admit it to anyone, but I wish you joined us tonight. I would feel safer.

“It’s almost time,” John checks his watch.

We gather our glasses. Greg takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. 

“5-4-3-2….1! Happy New Year!” The room explodes into cheers. 

Greg kisses me. “Happy New Year, Darling.”

I feel my phone buzz. I don’t even need to look, but I do the moment I can.

Happy New Year, Lucy - SH

You too, Sherlock - L

Are you safe? - SH

We’ll be home soon - L

Good - SH

I catch both Mary and John watching our exchange. They turn pink and look away quickly. Greg is watching the band, maybe he’s watching strangers pass by us. I see couples dance and think of our dance. You were so strong and warm - two things I did not expect.

My phone buzzes.

Don’t dawdle - SH

I picture you in your dressing gown, gazing out the window with your violin perched on your shoulder. It is the exact scene that greets me an hour later.

 

* * * * * * *

Sherlock

“Why did you agree to dinner finally after all this time?” A small bemused smile rests on her lips. 

I shrug nonchalantly. “A distraction, I guess.”

“From your work? Or your domestic life?” she asks.

“I guess both. My flat has become crowded,” I offer. 

“Ah yes, your Lucy and her Inspector,” she purrs. 

I don’t flinch at her term ‘your Lucy’. I know it was said to illicit a reaction from me. Truthfully, I am here for distraction and work. Irene has associated with Moriarty once before. Granted, it almost got her killed, but I never underestimate the irrational machinations of a woman, especially The Woman. While I am certain that Irene does not want me dead, I am less certain of her care for your safety. 

“I guess you heard. Funny, I don’t recall it making the rounds in the society section,” I sniff.

“Everything you do interests me, Sherlock. You should know that by now.” She uncrosses her legs to expose more of her thigh. 

I lean forward. “Everything? What have you learned thus far then?”

Her hand covers mine. “I know your flatmate was taken and you worked very hard to save her.”

“I have done the same for John. I even died for him,” I say.

Her thumb caresses the inside of my wrist - clearly searching for elevated pulse. She learned that trick from me. At one time, I will admit that I was influenced by her lips and gaze. While still an attractive and beguiling woman, under that facade nothing real existed. Her eyes flashed fire and hunger, but were empty otherwise. 

“And they say you have no heart,” she clucks while still caressing.

“Caring is not advantage. You are well aware of that,” I smile. 

Her hands return to her lap. “Why are you here, Sherlock? Clearly, you don’t fancy me. Or you are hiding it exceedingly well.”

“Irene, you know I take interest in what you do, and who you do it for,” I purr.

“I am no longer in that line of work,” she folds her arms. “I lost the taste for it.”

“What keeps you busy then?” I ask.

“A bit of this and a little of that,” she shrugs.

“And who keeps you company these days?” I ask.

“No one that would interest you,” she smiles. 

“Are you quite certain?” I fold my hands on my lap. “You might be surprised.”

“I’ve rather become an enthusiastic patron of the arts and entertainment folk,” she pours more wine. Funny, I have not taken one sip yet.

“He wants me to suffer then to kill me himself, this time,” I announce. “He thinks the best way to do that is to torture those around me. I’d watch your acquaintances, if I were you. Know which side you are on.”

She smiles, almost warmly. “Sherlock, you know I have your best interests at heart. We might not agree on what those are. I want no harm or foul to befall you or the people around you.”

“Good, then we are in agreement,” I nod. Clearing my throat, I stand. “Thank you for dinner.”

She looks at my untouched plate. “But you didn’t eat anything.”

“I ate Thursday,” I say. 

“Must you run off so soon?” she moves beside me.

“It’s late,” I grab my coat.

Dejected, she walks me to the door. “You know, most men would kill to be in your shoes.”

I glance down at my black oxfords. “Or for me to be dead in my shoes.”

“I’ve told you, you can have me. Someday, you’ll grow tired of waiting for her.”

I chuckle. “I’m only waiting for one person, and sex is not what I had in mind.”

She doesn’t believe me. While Moriarty breathes, I cannot think of anything but him. Too many of my friends are in the firing line of his insanity. Once I deal with him, I can think of other things. 

She gives my hand a squeeze. “While this is not the dinner I had planned, you are always welcome here.”

She pulls her height up to whisper close to me ear. “Always.”

“Good evening,” I bow and make my escape. 

Years ago, her machinations might have rattled me a little. I know that love and affection are just a game to her. Granted, the thought of burying my recent frustration in someone else did tantalize me for a second. I have no use for either emotion as they can dull my sharp mind.

The January air is biting and welcoming. I know she watches me as I cross the street and disappear. I do not get a sense that she is working with Moriarty, but she could be offering information out of fear. Anyone who has worked with Moriarty fears him forever. 

As I move along, I keep my ears open and my eyes shifting. He will not attack me here in the dark. He will go for you first, I know this. Time is slipping through my fingers. I need something to give me an edge over him. 

Go to the library tomorrow. I have a book for you that might be helpful - Irene

 

* * * * * * *

 

Lucy

 

“I’m sure Greg will be along soon. You don’t have to stay,” I protest.

“If anything were to happen to you, Sherlock would never forgive me,” John shakes his head.

Funny, he didn’t mention Greg. I let it slide even though I desperately want to know what he means. I know you feel responsible for all this. If I had not been living here, I would not be in this danger. However, I think John was referring to more than just your level of guilt.

“I feel silly having a babysitter,” I cluck.

John pouts. “Am I worse company than Sherlock?”

“Oh that’s not it,” I say. “You know what I mean.”

He nods. “I do. Rarely does he leave your side. I thought it was odd he went out.”

“A man has his needs,” I say a bit icily. “When he left, Greg was here.”

“Where did he go again?” John asks.

“He’s having dinner with Irene,” I say as nonchalantly as I can.

“What?” John leans forward with eyebrows furrowed. “He’s never done that.”

“I thought they were once….”

He waves his hands. “I don’t know what they were. I never trusted her. He had a strange soft spot for her. She knew it and used it against him. I never thought he’d ever feel like that again until…”  
His voice trails off as if he has been silenced. 

“Like what again until?” My heart pounds. I know this has to do with me.

The door opens behind me and John looks like he’s been spared.

“John, why are you here?” He asks. “We didn’t have plans.”

“Greg was called into work,” John stands. 

You frown. “Why wasn’t I called?”

I turn my head and look for some kind of glimpse as to what might have transpired. “You’re home early. I expected you much later.”

Your cold eyes switch to me. “Why wasn’t I called?”

“We didn’t want to interrupt your date since you seldom have them,” I settle back in my chair. I can actually hear your nostrils flare.

“Dinner with Irene? That’s a first,” John raises an eyebrow.

You choose to ignore his statement and remove your coat. “I should have been called.”

“Even you need a night off from babysitting,” I suggest.

“Is that how you see this? You think if you lock doors and windows that you are safe? He had a camera in here. He knew you were engaged the night it happened. If he wants to get you, he will,” you lean into my space.

“If he knows I’m engaged to Greg, then why am I still a target?” I ask.

You turn your back. “He must have his reasons.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see John bite his lip.

“If he wants me that badly, what makes you think you can stop him?” I stand.

You lift your jacket to reveal a gun. “Because every one of your so-called babysitters is armed.”

“Why don’t I have one to defend myself?”

“You don’t know how to use one,” you cross your arms in front of your chest.

I step forward so only inches separate us. “Then teach me how to shoot one.”

Your eyes soften as you tilt your head. I can’t interpret your expression. One word springs to mind - adoration.

You nod. “That’s a fair request.”

“Would Greg be okay with that?” John offers.

Without breaking your gaze, you grin. “He doesn’t need to know. Between the two of us, we can teach her everything.”

John rubs the back of his neck nervously. He doesn’t the like the idea of keeping secrets from Greg. But you, you are relishing the thought. I was afraid to see a sparkle in your eye after dining  
with Irene. No, it was the thought of teaching me to fire a gun that has you aglow

You clear your throat. “It’s settled then. We should have considered this sooner,” you look to John.

“True, true,” he agrees.

“I guess it is good that I lost my job. We’ll have plenty of time,” I over my shoulder as I disappear down the hall.

I hear your chuckle follow me.

* * * * * * *

Sherlock

 

We prepare for the inevitable showdown that is coming. The fact that Moriarty has been silent unsettles me. I doubt if he even knows what he plans to do. In this weakened state, he is more unpredictable and dangerous. 

John and I bring you to the firing range to get you accustomed to the feel of a gun and shooting one. I know John is the expert, but he is an unwilling participant. He feels we should tell Lestrade.  
I will leave that to you.

 

“Do I hold it like this?” You mimic every terrible crime television show ever created. 

“No, it’s more like this. You have to support your shooting hand for the recoil,” I demonstrate before handing my gun to you.

Your hands are dwarfed by its size. 

“How did I never notice that you were left-handed?” I muse.

“I use my right quite a bit,” you shrug as you struggle with the handle.

“Like this,” I move behind you. “Relax your arms. Take the trigger with your left and firmly cradle it with your right.”

I am suddenly aware that I am pressed against you and the room is getting warmer. 

“Stand on the balls of your feet,” my hands slip to your shoulders. “Relax your shoulders.”

I feel your shoulders sag under my touch. 

“Lean forward. The goal is to have a push/pull action with the recoil instead of a flip. This will help you get more shots off without having to reset your stance.” I straighten your arms again. I can smell your shampoo. Your hair tickles my chin. Against me, I can feel your heart reverberate. Is it the thrill of shooting of gun or my closeness? 

I clear my head of that nonsense. We are here to help you defend yourself. 

You take a deep breath and shoot. The first shot lands squarely in the crotch.

“You know exactly where to get a man,” I say lowly. 

I hear John wince behind me.

“But it’s not fatal….I want fatal,” you raise your arms again. 

This time I only need to adjust your stance slightly. You fire again and hit directly into the solar plexus. 

“That could be fatal,” I offer. 

You aim without my guidance and fire a shot directly to the head, then another one. And one more. 

Pride and something else well up inside me. I feel a burning spread across my skin. The look in your eye is precise and cold, but quickly softens as I clear my throat and you turn to me. 

“Your handedness is an advantage in your spacial awareness,” I say.

“Was that a compliment?” a wry grin tugs at your lips.

“For him, yes,” John says. 

I keep forgetting that he is here. 

“Shall we practice some more?” I suggest. 

 

“Yes, I want to feel competent with this thing,” you aim and strike the heart and head without blinking an eye.

“I’d say we are there, Lucy,” I clasp my hands behind my back. 

* * * * * * * * *

Lucy

I put my mobile on the dresser with a heavy sigh. You’ve been in your mind palace all morning, but you might as well hear this from me.

You lie on the sofa with your eyes closed and hands in a prayer pose. I wonder if you’ve ever really prayed in your life. I doubt it since you are ruled by science and logic. 

“We’ve been found out,” I sit on the armrest.

It takes you a minute to come back. “Did you say something?”

“Greg knows,” I say.

You look at me and shrug casually.

“About the shooting lessons,” I add.

“Oh that. It’s hardly scandalous,” you roll your eyes.

“He’s pretty upset. Says we should have consulted him.”

“The day I consult him about anything,” you scoff.

“I just wanted you to know that he might give out to you a bit when he gets home,” I shrug.

You sit up like a shot. “When you say ‘home’ you are not referring to the flat with his name on the lease.”

“Here,” I say dismissively.

“I would like to see him attempt to ‘give out to me’ in my home. If he wants to spout off at home, he can bloody well take the Tube and do it in his house,” your cheeks flush. “In fact, he spends too much time here as it is.”

“Are we cramping your style, Holmes?” I ask.

“I can barely live with one other person let alone two,” you stand.

“Are you asking us to leave?” I place my hands on my hips defiantly.

You are pacing now. “That is not what I said. Why do you women jump to the worst conclusion?”

“Would you like to try that without the misogynistic overtones?” I challenge.

“I want him out. I want you to stay. Everything was fine when it was just us,” you blurt.

Your chest is heaving as you stare me down. Your hands twitch by your side. I sense you want to hit something, or…… An overwhelming urge to pull your lips on mine overcomes me so violently, I feel ill. For a split second, I allow myself to imagine what your body crushed against mine would feel like.

Neither of us stands down with nostrils flaring. What is flooding your mind? Who will move first?

A phone moans from your pocket. I know that ringtone.  
   
“It’s for you,” I move away.

Your jawline tenses as you pull your mobile out. You read the text, and slip your phone back to your pocket.

“I must go out,” you say sharply.

“She certainly has you trained well,” I mutter.

“I’ll be late,” you grab your wool coat. “Your boyfriend will have to ‘give out to me’ then.”

“Fiancé,” I correct you.

I swear that I see you wince like I’ve slapped your face. A terse nod and you are gone.

I pace the flat with my heart racing. What just happened?

I don’t have much time to think about it as Greg will be over soon. I will need to placate his temper, and being distracted by you will not help. 


	18. Never trust a taxi fare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Lucy have dinner with John and Mary

**Sherlock**

“You should just be glad you don’t have to eat her cooking,” you shrug. 

“Having dinner out to discuss wedding plans is a complete waste of my time,” I sigh. “John knows I don’t like you out in public.”

“Have you heard anything from him? You search the flat routinely for surveillance camera and microphones,” you wave at a passing taxi.

“His silence makes him more dangerous,” I step into the street. 

A taxi pulls alongside us. I recognize the driver, so I open the door for you to slide in. 

“Mary says this Bistro is very good,” you adjust your coat. 

In doing so, your skirt slips up to reveal your thigh. I remember a time when I would not be influenced by a little show of skin. My cheeks warm slightly as I look out the window to concentrate on the passing city. I’ve watched myself slowly slip away into a festering teenager - but not even the teenager I once was. I rub my forehead and crack the window.

“You really don’t want to go,” you muse.

“I fail to see what I could offer to this. I have no idea how I was drafted as best man,” I shrug.

“I’m sure that was John not Mary,” you say.

“And how did you get to be a bridesmaid? Do you even know Mary?” I feel myself get agitated. 

I will never understand why John decided to propose to Mary. The concept of marriage perplexes me entirely. Why would anyone want to spend their entire lives with one person? 

I glance over and notice the perfect symmetry of your profile against the fading day. While you can certainly rattle my nerves, I don’t actually mind the time I spend with you. It’s like spending time with John, except you are more humorous and prettier. 

“Why can’t you let John be happy? You must realize that not everyone can be you,” you sigh.

“Well they should be,” I state. “Why not strive to be a better person?”

You roll your eyes. “Why don’t you strive to be a normal person? Most friends would be happy that their good friend has found someone they love.”

“Like you and Lestrade?” I do not hide my sarcasm.

You only return a glare.

After a minute of chilly silence, you turn to me. “Can you just pretend to be happy for him tonight? Just be jovial and smile….and not that creepy forced smile.”

I frown. “What forced smile?”

“The one where you show too many teeth but you look a bit dodgy,” you say.

“I doubt I look dodgy,” I scoff.

Your hands ball up in frustration. “Just be nice, Sherlock! Is that too much to ask?”

I smile at your pinking cheeks. Your concern for John warms me. In fact, you have been my conscious for the past few months. Years ago, I would have never agreed to this probably ending my friendship with John. You have tempered my carelessness for other’s feelings. 

You yawn and lean your head back against the seat. Late night with the Inspector? My eyes feel tired and red as well. It’s been many weeks since I’ve had a proper nights sleep. The urge to yawn becomes too great that I succumb as well. An alarm sounds in my brain. Something is amiss. I notice the window I cracker earlier is closed. How did I not notice the thick partition between us and the driver? Ah, your leg distracted me. 

The driver catches my glance. We are in danger. If I act too rashly, I’m not sure what he will do. Your eyes are closed. The heavy breathing is unmistakable - you are deep in slumber. 

The heat in the cab is stifling, sickening. I feel my eyelids long to close and join you. I have only moments to send a text to alert John.

Kidnapped in cab. Being gassed. Follow signal. Defineetly M. Get Lessrsde. SH 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

** Sherlock **

I am eye level with cold hard concrete. I smell gas, oil and dust. I have been left in a heap somewhere. My head stings when I sit up. I am surprised my hands are not bound. My cheekbone is tender, but it is the gas the driver used that has left me fuzzy, not the impact with hard ground.

Where am I? I am alone and the thought of him looming over you shakes me to the core. 

Think. I need to clear my mind of fear and emotion.

The building must one of those abandoned factories Moriarty is so found of. Concrete floors, high ceilings, stained grey paint on the walls. The door is metal and locked with a new deadbolt from the outside. He’s planned this space for me. I look for evidence that it’s been utilised before. 

This room must have been the foreman’s office judging by the size. Only a rusty metal desk and cabinet remain. The windows are several feet above my head. I tug on the pipes along the wall. Chips of rust fall to the ground and in my hair. I doubt the pipe will withstand my weight. 

 If there are cameras, they are not visible.

I check my pockets, though I know the answer. They are empty. My mobile and gun are gone. 

I close my eyes. Where are we? I listen for noises of traffic or birds outside. The musty air suggests we are are near a river. I get no sense of sea air. In the far distance, I hear an airplane on take off in the direction of America. We are still London. 

The desk is empty, as is the cabinet. I work on pulling out the metal dividers from the cabinet. I’m not certain what I will do with them. There is nothing useful in or with the desk. 

Deftly, I unbutton my shirt and place the dividers as best as I can against my vitals. I close my jacket and coat to hide my now bulky physique. I can only wait for Moriarty or someone to come. 

I hope John was able to track us. I cannot recall the last thing I texted before I hit ‘send’. I reached for you before the world went black. Your warm leg was the last thing I remember before I woke up on the floor.

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

**Sherlock**

 I hear footsteps echo down the hall. The shoes are man-made leather, definitely not Moriarty. A key unlocks the lock and deadbolt. The metal door clangs as it swings open revealing a large blonde man hovering in the shadows. 

“Come,” he says in a thick Swedish accent. 

I guess the Russians were of no use to Moriarty. In fact, I bet the two associated with your kidnapping are dead, due to surface any day now. Moriarty is not sentimental. 

Unfortunately, this is where he has me at a disadvantage. I feel like Superman when the villain discovers his weakness. Human beings and emotions. 

When Moriarty loaded John with explosives, I felt helpless. When he had me on the roof of St. Bart’s, I was helpless. I had to fake my own death to save others. What will I have to do to save your life? 

“I take it we will being seeing your boss,” I comment as I make note of the Swede’s handedness, clothes, anything that can give me an advantage. 

“It must be terribly difficult to work for such a mastermind and just take direction,” I comment. His shoulders tense. 

“I hope he pays you well for kidnapping and whatever else he has planned for you to do. Not that it will matter. Once his is finished today, killing me and the girl, you will be next. I’ve seen his handy work. He is truly sadistic,” I cluck cheerfully behind him. 

“Quiet,” he hisses. 

The hallway leads us to what I can assume was some kind of production room. I see the grease stains and marks from where heavy machinery once laid. It looks like the sort of place one has a showdown with an enemy. I look for exits, stairways, any way to escape. Being unarmed, I search for anything that can be used for a mortal blow. 

“So glad you could come, Sherlock,” Moriarty’s voice booms from above. 

Fifteen feet above me, Moriarty stands in one of his expensive suits. His arm is wrapped possessively around you - in an ill-fitting wedding dress. 

You cannot hide the terror in your eyes from me. I clasp my hands behind my back.

“In time for what?” I attempt to sound calm.

Twice, I have seen you in this position, in his grasp. I want to send you a reassuring sign, but I hold eye contact with Moriarty.

He offers a large maniacal smile. “My wedding!” 

I raise an eyebrow.”I thought you were gay.”

He laughs. “Funny. I heard the same about you.” He kisses your cheek. “Guess she’s quite a woman to turn us both.”

You swallow hard but otherwise remain motionless. I can’t sort out if you have a plan or not. 

“We need a witness, and I could not think of a better person than the man who brought us together.” He gives you a squeeze.

“I’m honoured.”

His smile fades. “I knew you would be.”

I see no weapon against you. He must have you paralyzed by fear.

“Where are your sharp shooters?” If I delay long enough, perhaps John will find us. Or I can think of something else.

“You know, I figured that was not the way to start a marriage. We are just waiting for the pastor,” he takes your arm to lead you down the stairs. His hands rest on your shoulders as you descend, just in case you attempt anything. One push could kill you.

I hold my breath as your eyes hold on me. I was dreading seeing you in a wedding dress, and this is more horrifying than my worst nightmare.

“Plus,” Moriarty says. “No one is dying on my wedding day.”

“That’s so unlike you,” I quip.

“I know,” he trills. “I’m a changed man for this little lady.”

“So, this is your big plan?” I ask. “Tsk tsk. I expected more from you.”

He slings his arm around you. “Well after the wedding, me and the Missus will be going to America. Maybe we’ll find a little cabin I’m the woods to start our family of lil’ Moriarty’s.”

“Sounds cozy. I guess Lucy has given her consent.” This cannot be his plan. It’s even crazy for him.

“That’s the thing. We’ve already had our first lovers spat and make up,” he moves your hair to reveal a purple mark on the side of your throat made quite obviously by his mouth. 

I lose control when I see the shame and pain hit your eyes. I move towards him but the  Swede grabs me by the collar as Moriarty steps in front of you.

“Oh, do I have your attention now? It’s no longer funny, is it?” He roars.

“What do you want? Money? For me to stop solving crimes? Fine. Just leave her out of this,” I hiss.

“Sherlock, this is what I want. Oh, this is so much worse than making you kill yourself. You are going to die a little every day. Look at her,” he smiles. “She doesn’t want me. She doesn’t even want the cop. It’s you she wants and you were supposed to be her hero.”

“I’m fine,” you say.

I know you are not and every nerve ending hums to squeeze the life from Moriarty with my own two hands. 

“She thinks she’s saving your life. Sweet, isn’t it? After you witness the ‘I do’s’ we will be going on our honeymoon,” he pinches your behind. “I cannot wait to consummate this piece of ass.”

You close your eyes in disgust. This cannot happen. God John, please be on your way. 

“And you will spend the rest of your days tracking us down, trying to the hero. Meanwhile, I will get to fuck her any way and time I please.”

I snarl. “I’ll find you and when I do, it will make middle eastern torture look like a massage.”

“Ooh, I’m scared,” he laughs. “Ever heard of Stockholm syndrome? By the time you find us, she’ll choose me over you.”

Suddenly, his phone buzzes. “That must be the minister. Let the good man in.” He draws his gun from his pocket. “I got this.”

I have just moments as the Swede turns around to grab his gun from the back of his pants. He whirls around to hit me and I squeeze the trigger without aiming. Two shots and he falls over.

Moriarty seems nonplussed by the Swede’s death as I point the gun at him. 

“Thank you. You just saved me a messy task before I leave.” He nods. “I’ll consider it my wedding present though I wish you waited until after the ceremony.”

“Don’t move,” I say aiming the gun at his head. 

He rolls his eyes. “Yadda yadda. That was a lucky shot.”

Somewhere there is a knock several floors below.

“That is the minister,” Moriarty sighs as he looks down the hall.

“Lucy!” I yell.

I watch you move out from behind Moriarty. I take aim and unload as many rounds as I can. After the first few, I see the unmistakable flashes of blanks being fired. Why were there blanks in this gun?

“That was loud,” Moriarty stands. 

I see your blues eyes water as you gasp in pain. “Sherlock…”

No, no, no.

Moriarty burst out in laughter. “Oh my God. You shot her! The irony!”

A red stain appears in the middle of your dress. All sound and movement stops except your body collapsing the floor.

***  *  *  *  *  ***

**Sherlock**

“Look what you did, Sherlock!” He turns to look at you and shakes his head.

The gun points at me and by his face, he means to use it. He no longer cares about being clever, he just wants me dead. I have no idea where John and Lestade are but no one has found us yet.

I see you, crumpled on the ground. I look, I hope - I even pray for movement or breathing. There is nothing. I feel the bile rise in my throat. Watching your hair blow in the wind, your body twisted and contorted, I don’t care if he takes my life.I know John will be okay without me, he’s done it before. Now he has Mary. I think he would understand even better than me why I chose to let it end. I’ve never cared for anyone like you. It was hard, and confusing - but thrilling to the end. John said you were perfect for me when we looked over your application to rent. He had no idea how right he was. Beauty and the Brains.

How could I miss? How could I have been so careless and taken your life? 

I wish I had time to apologise for every time I made you feel small, or stupid. For burning the toast, or ruining the wash. For storing body parts next to your salad. For being the reason you left this world early. 

“I got to you, didn’t I? The great Sherlock Holmes who managed to rise from the dead,” he smiles.

“Just do it,” I hiss.

“I’m not sure I will kill you. That would be the easy way out. You played right into my plan,” he clucks.

I narrow my eyes and think. The blanks. The minister. The dress. He knew exactly how many live rounds the Swede had.  

“It’s all coming together, isn’t it? You were always meant to kill her,” he says. Throwing his head back in laughter. “Like I’d ever marry. I’ll admit that I should have fucked her once just so I could tell you what she felt like.”

“You are insane,” I shake my head. 

“Maybe so, but you have to admire my brilliance in the plan,” he shrugs.

I Iook at your lifeless form. I don’t care of he shoots me, I need to get help for you.If there is any chance you might still be alive, I must do anything I can. If I die trying, so be it. At least I will be near you. I remove my scarf and move towards you.

“Stop! Stop!” He yells.

I see his finger on the trigger. Closing my eyes, I brace for the pain or the darkness, yet I don’t stop. I hear three distinct shots, but feel no pain. My eyes spring open to see Jim’s surprised face before he sinks to his knees. A cough forces blood from his mouth before slumping over, a thump to the ground.

Just beyond him, you hold the gun I gave you. Your arm shakes supporting your weight. I rush to him and peel the gun from his seemingly dead hands. With my scarf, I tie his hands together behind his back. 

“I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

Then I rush to you as you lie back on the concrete and gasp for air. Dirt and tears stain your face as you try to breathe evenly. I see a wound on your right shoulder, the bullet has made a clean pass. I remove my coat and apply pressure to the wound in your side. The one I caused. You wince against the pain. I try to wipe your tears, but only smear blood on your face. 

“I thought you were dead,” my voice shakes.

“You were supposed to, because he believed it too,” you say weakly.

“Lucy, I’m so sorry. Please hold on,” I beg. 

I use my jacket to cover the bullet graze on your shoulder.

Your eyes flutter. “Sherlock….I….I…”

I press my fingers to your lips. “Shhh. Say nothing. Reserve your energy.”

My heart races in my throat. Tears sting my eyes like acid. Your skin is cold, you’re going into shock. The best I can, I pull you close to me and cover you with my wool coat. My hand presses against the wetness in your side in hopes to slow the bleeding. Your eyes roll back and close. 

“No no no, Lucy. Wake up….please. Don’t leave me. I need you.” My tears smear the blood on your cheeks.

“Sherlock! Lucy! Where are you?” John’s voice floats through the vacant factory. 

“John! Greg! We’re here!” My voice cracks. “Help! Call for an ambulance. HURRY!”


	19. As you fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock holds a vigil by Lucy

John

You insist on riding in the ambulance with Lucy, despite being told that you cannot. I see your anger on the surface, and you are close to striking the driver. I intercede as your doctor and state you are in shock. The driver relents and allows you to climb in beside her. Truthfully, I think you are in shock. The scene I happened on was horrific, and I’ve been to war.

“I’ve never seen him like this,” Sally comments as the ambulance pulls away.

“Neither have I.”

You pace the ER waiting room as they work on her. Sally asks to speak with you about what happened, and you glare. I suggest later, you’re in shock.

“Where’s Lestrade?” Your tone is hostile.

“He was in the country. They found the Russian couple near Norwich in a shallow grave,” she says. “He’s been notified.”

“The Russian couple that kidnapped Lucy?” I ask.

“He thought of everything,” you shake your head

Lucy is moved to a private room in the ICU. The majority of the bullet has been removed having pierced the spleen. No other major organs have been damaged. They watch her closely as she has gone into shock. 

Against the wishes of hospital staff, you sit at her bedside with your fingers threaded in what looks like prayer. I watch you stare at the machines surrounding her and all the wires and tubes running into her.

“What happened?” I ask.

You tell me about the taxi, the room you were in and the Swede. You recite some of the chilling words Moriarty said. Your eyes glaze over as you explain how Lucy was shot.

“It was you?” I ask quietly.

“I aimed for him….” And a tear rolls down your cheek.

“Then who killed Moriarty?”

You look to Lucy. “She did. She pretended to be dead. He was going to kill me, and she shot him. She saved my life and look what I’ve done to her.”

“I’m sure she knew you meant to get Moriarty ,” I look at the poor lifeless girl. “Why was she in a wedding dress?”

You rub your temples, your eyes never leaving her. “We were separated after the taxi. He had changed her for some ruse that he was going to marry her and take her to America.”

“What?” I frown. Clearly Moriarty for as crazy as he was had real lost his marbles.

“I actually believed it. Can you imagine that? Seeing her in that state, I don’t know, clouded my judgement. He never had any intention of that. He always meant for me to kill Lucy so I would live with the guilt,” you sigh, “forever.”

“That was an elaborate plan,” I say.

“It almost worked.” Anger clouds your face. “I should have known better. I would have never missed that before.”

“Before what?” I ask.

The door flies open as Greg flies through it. “Oh, I didn’t know you were here.”

You say nothing and return your gaze to Lucy.

“Greg,” I offer my hand in comfort.

“I just talked to the doctor,” he side glances you. “I thought only family was allowed in.”

“You aren’t family,” you say coldly.

“What did the doctor say?” I ask.

“They removed one bullet and the other grazed her shoulder. The ordeal has in her shock which is why she’s not awake,” he stares at Lucy with wide eyes.

“The anesthesia hasn’t worn off,” I offer.

Greg moves to the foot of the bed. “Thank you for staying with her, but I’m here now. You can go home,” he says to you. 

I hold my breath.

Without looking away from Lucy, you say, “I’m not leaving.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Greg blinks.

“I’m not leaving this room. Perhaps you should run to the third floor and have your ears checked, Inspector.”

The edge to your voice sends a chill down my spine. I sense an argument erupting soon. That’s not what Lucy needs. 

“Can I have a word?” I ask Greg.

He glares at you as he follows me to the hallway.

“What was that about?” He asks.

“Have you heard the details about tonight?”

“I haven’t talked Sally yet,” he shrugs.

“I don’t understand the finer points, but Sherlock was trying to shoot Moriarty and,” I paused thinking how awful that moment must have been for you, “he hit Lucy instead.”

“He shot Lucy?” He voice echoes down the quiet hallway. A few nurses look up.

“Shhh. Yes. He’s in shock as well,” I state. 

“He doesn’t even like her,” he cocks his head, “right?”

I swallow hard. “It’s Sherlock. Who knows what goes on in his head? He was wrong and that’s enough to send him into shock.”

“He acted like I had no right to be there,” Greg huffs.

“He’s not in his right mind,” I lie.

“Is he ever?”Greg quips. 

“Let me talk to him. I’ll get him to get cleaned up and give you some time,”I say.

“Then what? He’ll be back?” Greg asks.

I nod. “Possibly. No one can control Sherlock, you know that by now.”

Greg stares at the hospital door. “Is he holding a vigil in there?”

“He feels responsible,” I suggest.

I can tell that Greg is not convinced. His brow furrows as if he’s working out a difficult mathematic problem. I think he’s starting to suspect there’s something deeper to your bedside devotion. I’m not even sure you’ve sorted it out. 

“I’ll be right back,” I disappear back to the hospital room.

You were muttering something close to Lucy, but stop when I walk in the room. You straighten in your seat. 

“She feels warm,” you say concerned. 

“She might be fighting an infection,” I suggest. “Listen, you really need to get cleaned up, Sherlock. You are covered in dried blood.”

“I’m not leaving this hospital until she’s better,” you say plainly. 

“Fine,” I sigh. “Then at least use the shower here. I will get you a fresh suit.”

You look defiant in staying.

“Lucy should not see you in this state with dried blood in your hair,” I say.

You stand. “You are right. I should clean up.”

Greg walks back into the room. “How are you?”

You cast a glance to the bed. “It should be me.”

“You’re both going to be okay,” Greg clears his throat.

“Has anyone contacted Anna, the mother?” you ask.

Greg and I look to one another. 

“A father maybe?” you ask.

“Her father died years ago,” Greg says. He cocks his head. “You didn’t know that? How long have you lived with her?”

You blink. “I was unaware of that fact.”

“I’ll try to get in touch with the mother. She’s still at her sister’s in Chicago,” I offer. “I’ll get the number when I go round your flat.”

“Where you going?” Greg asks.

“I’m going to shower in the men’s lounge to wash the blood off me,” you say simply. 

“You aren’t going home, are you?” Greg crosses his arms.

“Would you if you were to blame for her current state?” you ask bitterly. You look to me. “I’ll be downstairs.” 

Greg shrugs. He has given up trying to get you to leave. 

You stop on the way out. “Where is the body? Moriarty? Is it here?”

“Molly’s looking it over now in the morgue,” Greg says. 

With a terse nod, you leave. 

Greg rubs his chin. “This is more than just guilt. It has to be, but it’s Sherlock. He cares about no one.”

“He did fake his own death to save us,” I offer. 

I leave Greg to be with Lucy and get you whatever you might need for grooming and dressing. Molly intimates me that you pay Moriarty’s body a visit with your riding crop until you can barely stand.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  

**Sherlock**

It’s been 48 hours since you were shot. The nurses have told me that you have opened your eyes, but not for long. Last night while I slept in this chair, you ran a fever.They are worried about infection leading to sepsis. I have not left the hospital and Lestrade is getting antsy with my vigil. I don’t know why I’m compelled to stay. Maybe I just want to say I’m sorry, something I don’t do very often. 

My fingers feel the warm skin on your neck as I trace the mark Moriarty left. It’s faded to a yellowish purple. I hope it’s gone before you wake. My hand grasps yours. Please wake  soon.

“Why you? You are just a simple girl that won’t let me have my way. Your friends are vapid and you leave toast crumbs in the butter,” I hold your hand tighter. “Why should you mean more than all others?”

The beeping of the machines are a curse and blessing. I watch my tear roll down our hands.

“Is this what love is, to want to offer my own life just to see you open your eyes?” I whisper.

“Yes, it’s exactly what love is,” John’s voice startles me from behind.

I drop your hand and sit back in the chair. “How long have you been there?”

He is fighting a grin. “Do you think she can hear you?”

I wipe my eyes. “Good God, I hope not.”

Suddenly, I feel very hot and embarrassed under his gaze.

“I think she’d like to hear it. I’d bet she’s been waiting to hear what you’ve been longing to say for a long time,” he says. 

“You are being dramatic. I’m responsible for this,” I motion to you and the machines pumping in oxygen, antibiotics and fluids.

“I’m to blame for this.” I pull back your hair to show him what Moriarty did to you. “That’s why I’m here.”

He doesn’t believe me and perhaps I’m trying to convince myself that guilt keeps me at your side. 

“How is she today?” he asks.

I’m relieved he has relented.

“She had a fever last night. They are watching for infection. She did wake up a few more times, just never when anyone else is here except doctors and nurses.”

“She has some color in her cheeks,” he offers. 

Lestrade walks through the door. He rolls his eyes as he sees me. “Have you been home at all?”

“Have you?” I raise an eyebrow. 

“I still have to work. There is still the matter of what happened in the factory to clear up,” he says.

“What’s there to do? I shot the Swede in self-defense. I shot Lucy accidentally and she shot Moriarty. Are you going to arrest us?” My patience is wearing thin.

“If she doesn’t want to press charges against you, then there will no arrests.” He sounds hopeful that she will press charges.

“She won’t press charges,” John says. 

“Honestly Sherlock, when will you stop this creepy vigil?” Lestrade asks. 

“When she tells me to leave,” I answer plainly. 

“We have an officer outside, but with Moriarty dead, I guess she’s out of danger,” he says.

“You guess? I apologize for not feeling secure, Inspector. She was kidnapped in your care,” I snort.

“And she was shot in yours,” his voice raises. “What’s going on here, Holmes? This doesn’t feel like guilt or security only.”

“Really Lestrade, you’ve been watching too much EastEnders,” I scoff. 

A nurse walks in. “Oi, this is a lot of visitors for her.”

“How is she?” Lestrade asks. 

“She’s doing better. Who is family?” she glances around the room. 

Lestrade and I both step forward. The nurse switches her gaze between us. 

Her eyes turn to me. “And you are?”

“The flatmate,” I straighten my back and look as authoritative as possible.

“And you?”

“The fiance,” Lestrade’s chest puffs up.

“I’m just a friend,” John pipes in yet no one cares. 

The nurse’s brows furrow in confusion. 

“Is she getting better?” Lestrade asks.

“Her fever has broken which is very good.” She takes the chart at the end of the bed. 

“Will she wake up soon?” he pries.

She smiles. “She has been awake, but not more than moments at a time. I’m guessing in a day or two, she’ll be fully lucid. Her body is no longer fending off infection.”

“When can she come home?” I blurt. 

“She’ll being come home with me, thank you very much,” Lestrade snipes.

“Perhaps we should let a doctor decide what is best for Lucy.” My voice climbs. 

“Or let her decide. Go home with the man she is going to marry, or the man who shot her,” he growls. 

“Okay, everyone out,” the nurse snaps. “Last thing she needs is you two bickering.”

“It was calm as a lake until he came in,” I say pointedly looking at Lestrade. 

“I need to take vitals. Out,” she shoos. 

“Well, look what you’ve done,” Lestrade hisses.

“What I’ve done? I was quiet until you burst through the door,” I shrug.

“Oh enough you two, or I’ll get the dueling pistols out,” John sighs.

I turn away realizing that I may have over reacted a bit. I’ve let my feelings bleed out for Lestrade to become suspicious. He has nothing to fear as he can give you so much more than I ever could.

***  *  *  *  *  *  ***

**Lucy**

My dreams have been strange and like a movie on a repeat. Abandoned buildings with cold walls. I remember everything about that night. The ride in the taxi. Being told to undress and change into that God awful wedding dress that smelled of moth balls. Jim’s rough hands on my arms as he pinned me to the wall and bit my neck.

I dream of the sensation of falling after the bullet hit me. I don’t remember the pain, but I see your face - the shock, terror and pain.

Voices bring through layers of dreams. A dance. A wedding. Falling. An alarm is going off in my bedroom, but I cannot turn it off. As my fuzzy view sharpens, I see that I’m surrounded by machines. I blink a few times.

“Well hello,” a nurse smiles down at me. “Are you going to stay a awake longer this time?”

“What…” my throat is so dry it hurts to talk.

“Hold on.” She pours some water in a cup. She holds the straw for me as I sip. Though it burns my throat, it also feels good. 

“What day is it?”

“It’s Monday night,” she says. “How do you feel?”

“I’m thirsty and I ache,” I croak.

“I’ll see about getting you some ice chips. They’ll be easier on your throat than water. Do you remember what happened?”

I nod. “Yes, am I okay?”

“You’ll make a full recovery, but I’ll fetch the doctor to talk to you about everything,” she says.

I hear voices just outside my door.

“You’ve a bit of a fan club outside. Shall I send them away so you can rest?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I’d like to see Sherlock.”

“Are you sure?” she asks. “You should still rest.”

“Yes, please send him in. Just him,” I say.

The nurse nods. “I’ll go fetch the doctor as well.”

She opens the door and the voices fall quiet. I hear her say, “She wants to see Sherlock.”

‘What?” Greg’s voice floats inside my room. I’m not ready to see him just yet.

I attempt to smooth my dirty hair, and know I look a fright. You close the door behind you. You hold your breath, or look like you are trying hard to contain all emotion.

Your hands clasp behind your back. Your posture is stiff and your face is stone. Yet everything I need to know, I see in your eyes.

You swallow hard. “How….how do you feel?”

“I’m sore,” I say.

“And the pain?” you ask.

I grin. “They have me on marvelous drugs.”

You exhale. “Lucy, I am eternally sorry. I can never forgive myself for what I’ve done to you.”

“Sherlock, I don’t blame you,” I say.

You sit in the chair beside me. “If you never moved in with me…”

“We can’t think that. I could have been hit by a car, struck by lightning. I don’t regret anything,” I cough.

“What do you need?” you lean forward.

“Some water please, my throat is terribly dry,” I ask.

You rush across the room to get the cup of water on my bedside. With one hand on my shoulder, you help me take a sip.

“Thank you.” I settle back against my pillows.

“What else do you need?”

“Tell me he is really dead,” my voice quivers.

Your hand covers mine. “I made certain of it. Do you remember anything?”

“I remember everything,” I say gravely.

You dip your head. “I’m so sorry for shooting you.”

“Sherlock, I don’t blame you. You were trying to save me. It was a crazy scene…” My hand covers yours gripping the railing of my hospital bed.

“People around me always get hurt. Mrs. Hudson, John…..you. I don’t have many friends so I need to keep the ones I have safe,” your voice is tender.

“I guess I’m a friend then?” I ask with a small smile.

“Well, clearly I don’t shoot enemies,” you crack a sad smile. “You are part of a very small selective group.”

We stare at one another for a moment. Slowly, your grin fades.

“I better let Lestrade come in. He must be clawing at the door,” you roll your eyes.

“In a moment. He’ll just fuss over me,” I tighten my grip on your hand. After a moment if contemplation, I look up. “Sherlock, why did you stay here?”

“What? I…” your pallid cheeks turn slightly pink.

“That’s your coat on the back of the chair. These books by the bed, they are yours. I heard you read aloud, I’m guessing to me. I know the hand holding mine was yours,” I say.

You blink and stare at my hand on yours. You contemplate your answer carefully. “I was to blame for all this. The fact that when you move, you will feel pain in your side. The scar on your shoulder. It doesn’t matter that it was an accident. It happened by my hand. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, even if I didn’t deserve it. I couldn’t leave until I knew you were well.”

You sit back breaking the connection we had. “Besides, I was standing in for Lestrade who could not be here all the time.”

“A stand-in for Lestrade?”

You may never admit the deeper reason you were here. I know you are holding something back. Perhaps you cannot admit it to yourself. We may never move beyond this intimate moment. I have to remind myself that this is not your area - emotion. Irene once struck a chord in you. Perhaps I’ve moved you further ahead towards real intimacy for someone in the future.

“I should get him,” you stand. “I should go home now.”

“Will you visit again?” I ask.

“If you would like. I guarantee that my company is far better when you are unconscious,” your lips turn up in an awkward smile.

“If you can smuggle in some curry, I’d be grateful,” I say.

You nod.”That, I can do. Take care, Lucy.”

I take a deep breath to prepare myself for Greg. So many times, I thought you might take me in your arms in relief or overwhelming emotion. You were so reserved and contained, I thought I might scream. But this is you, and it will never go beyond what this is. I know Greg will insist I move in with him once I recuperate. I will marry a lovely man, and you will go on solving crime.

 

 


	20. What if the storm ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy returns to Baker Street

**Lucy**

One week after everything, I am heading home. I sleep a lot in the hospital as there’s not much else to do. The telly is terrible. John and Mary visit. She distracts me with pictures of bridesmaids dresses, while John watches me carefully. I’m not sure what he’s looking for. Greg comes in the evening to have dinner with me. After much convincing, I tell him I want to recuperate at Baker Street. It’s one level and I simply want all my things as I get stronger. Greg’s hours have been erratic lately as they investigate a rash of gang activity that has suddenly broken out. I try not to wonder if it is connected to Moriarty’s death.

You visit too - once a day. You smuggle in scones, proper toasted cheese sandwiches and curry for me. You don’t stay long and seem distracted. Perhaps you are on a new case. Perhaps seeing me in here is a constant reminder of that night.

Now we sit in the back of a Town Car heading to Baker Street. You don’t trust taxi’s anymore,at least not where I’m concerned. Mycroft arranges for this trip home. You insist on accompanying me which causes me to wonder if the danger has truly passed.

You don’t say much, but stare out the window deep in thought. I just look forward to my own bed. Though it’s only mid-afternoon, I might head straight to it. 

I pause to look at our front door before entering 221B. I was never so overjoyed to see the hideous wallpaper of the staircase until now.

“Can you honestly say you missed all this?” You ask.

I nod as I follow you up the stairs. “I can. I’ll even be happy to see some spoiled milk.”

“I asked Mrs. Hudson to tidy up for your benefit,” you open the door to allow me inside. 

The lingering scent of our Christmas tree greets me when I walk inside. Mrs. Hudson did more than tidy up a bit. The floor practically gleamed. There was not even a hint of any spoiled food emanating from the kitchen. It was quite a welcome home. 

I turn to see you place my hospital bag beside the closed door. You stand frozen for a moment. You take off your coat but discard it to the floor. You look as if you might be ill.

It takes two long strides for you to reach me. The look in your eye is unbridled and desperate. You crush your lips to mine in a fever. My head spins roller coaster. What has gotten into you?

My arms are caught in my coat. I relax and it slips to the floor allowing my arms to wrap around your waist. Your slender hands gently cradle my face. I have no idea who you are right now, but I don’t care. 

You haven’t done this often as you awkwardly move your lips against mine. Your tongue pushes impatiently against my mouth. I part my lips to deepen our kiss. Your lips are softer and more luscious than I ever considered. 

We fight for control. Your teeth graze my bottom lip. I don’t dare flinch or you might stop. Our noses bump, our breath rages. Finally, you relent and allow me take the lead. 

As we find a rhythm, your hands slip from my face to crush my body against yours. I feel the chair press into my back. My wound throbs slightly - but other things are beginning to ache as well.

Your curls feel like silk in my hands. I forgot how strong and solid you are. You press further against me, and the chemical reaction is unmistakable. I did not think you were capable of being affected by the physical. 

Feeling you uninhibited and hungry has set me on fire. Your thighs press against mine and I attempt to hold you tighter even though there is no air between us. The curls stick to back of your neck as the heat of our kiss climbs. 

You pull away, panting. Staring at my swollen lips, you steady yourself. The color drains from your flushed cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. 

Your arms release me to collapse against the chair. 

And you are gone up the stairs to your bedroom.

I sink into the chair with room spinning. My hand trembles as it runs through my hair. My memory cannot reach back to the last time I felt such an overwhelming desire, or even felt that desired. Your glances, your comments have all lead to this explosion. Your body writes checques that your mind is not prepared to cash. 

So now what?

I hear you pace the room. Ordinarily, you pick up your violin when your mind is tangled or troubled. It sits on your chair and I sense your longing for it. You want it to calm you, distract you or help your sort out the jungle in your head. 

Suddenly, I am thankful Greg is on detail tonight and will not be coming by. He felt I needed a good night’s rest. I am not sure that is possible now. But I can’t see him in this state. 

I want to bang on the door and demand to know what that was all about. You can’t just go around kissing engaged women then run away. Your emotional immaturity glares me in the face. But then again, I never suspected that you could be capable of such fervor. 

It takes me nearly an hour to sort myself before I get a cup of tea together in the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson has out done herself - but perhaps it was you. Nothing you do now would surprise. 

I take my tea to den and stare numbly at the telly. I watch The Voice and some gardening show. My mind wanders down the hall to your room. You are still, perhaps finally sleeping. 

Hunger causes me to unfurl from the chair. I’m thrilled to discover that someone has done the shopping and get busy making myself some curry with chicken. I’ve made enough for you, but the smell has not brought you from your cave. Cautiously, I knock on your door.

“Sherlock, I’ve made some curry if you are hungry,” I offer through the door.

Nothing but silence. The bedsprings squeak under your weight. “I’m not hungry.”

Your tone is distant. I know better to get my hopes up that you’ll open the door and your heart. 

“But thank you, Lucy,” you blurt as I turn away. 

I sense your yearning, but you need to come out. 

“It will be in fridge if you want some later.”

I take my plate and sit in your chair which far more comfortable than the one you deemed mine. I know tonight I am safe commandeering it while you hide. 

After washing up from supper, I carefully shower. I need to mindful of the dressing in my side. I’m not one for bikini’s, but I will never be able to wear one now without stares and whispers. While I dab around the dressing, I hear footsteps outside the bathroom door. The floor creaks under you as you stand on the other side. I hold my breath. Yes, you’ve been bolder than I ever imagined you could be, but to come in while I’m in the tub? 

After a moment, the footsteps fade away. 

My bed is lovely and downy compared to the hard cot of the hospital bed. After taking my medicine, I let my thoughts drift around my room. Everything is in the same place, but it’s all so different now. The air has changed as do the shadows on the wall. I miss hearing the nurses talk and the constant buzz of machines. As my head grows heavy, I see your eyes and feel your fingertips. Your voice rumbled through my head like a velvety purr of a wild cat. And those lips, dear God, those lips.

I wake in the middle of the night to the furious sounds of Vivaldi’s Winter echoing through the flat - angry and frantic. You play a few discordant notes and stop abruptly. You pace, then start again, more frenzied than the last time. 

I listen for a while and gauge your emotions. Like Vivaldi’s Winter, they are complex and turbulent. Yet they lull me back to sleep and to the odd dreams the last few weeks have caused. 

***  *  *  *  *  *  ***

**Sherlock**

A pain develops between my shoulder blades from staring into the microscope. I have been staring at the same set of cells found at the scene of one of London’s work gang wars. 

To my right, someone moves. I pull away to see Molly giving me a nervous side-glance. 

“Morning,” she says quietly.

“Molly, how long have you been here?” I straighten my stiff back.

“About two hours,” she says.

Two hours is a long time to be staring at something with no conclusion. Lack of sleep has never caused this level of distraction. I know it was my actions yesterday that have brought me to an intellectual stand still.

I leave before you awaken, still unsure of what I did and how I feel about it. My mind is a bigger jumble than ever. Partly because I kissed you, and partly because you kissed me back. I can’t quite shake the memory of you pressed to me - and your lips.

“You seem really distracted,” Molly says.

“It’s been a trying week,” I rub my eyes. 

“You stayed a lot at the hospital when she was here,” Molly bites her lower lip. “I guess she’s important - like John.”

I consider my answer carefully. “I was at fault.”

I know I must face you and attempt to explain. What was there to say? I was motivated by a new side of me that you have brought out. A Sherlock capable of emotion and desires. A Sherlock I did not think existed.

“Aren’t these simple gang murders?” she asks.

“If they were, I wouldn’t be here. There’s something more nefarious going on with these. These so-called gangs are using highly sophisticated means of killing.”

Lestrade enters the lab and I immediately feel guilt and envy. 

“You’re here early,” he remarks.

“You mentioned you wanted me on this as soon as possible,” I say.

“How was last night?” he asks.

“How do you mean?” I look back to microscope hoping to avoid his gaze.

“It was her first night out of the hospital,” he says.

I look up. “You didn’t call?” 

“I was on detail and thought she might need rest,” he says. “Did she say something about that?”

“You didn’t come up,” I hide a smirk. 

“I guess I should call and stop by today,” he sighs. “I just don’t know how to approach her right now.”

I have no idea what comes over me when I say,”Maybe give her a few days to settle back in.”

Maybe I need a few days to decide what to do.

“Sherlock, can we talk?” his voice is grave.

“Go right ahead.” I have suspected that he sensed something.

He looks to Molly. “Can we have a moment?”

“Oh, sure.” Molly gathers her things. 

I take a deep breath. It’s clear that Lestrade has not spoken to you, so he has not heard anything from you. Would you confess or carry on as if it never happened? Should we both?

“The things is - the Chief Superintendent wants to speak with Lucy. I’ve held him off as long as I could,” Lestrade says.

I frown. “What does he want with her?” 

“He wants a word with her about Moriarty and you, I suspect. It was a bloody scene there at the factor.”

“Yes, it was. One, I think, she does not need to relive. Do they think she’s guilty of something?” My neck feels hot. 

“They just want to know that your account and her account match up,” he says.

I stand. “I’m sorry, didn’t we kill the bad guys? It’s not like she’s killed a nun in self-defense. Though that would have been bloody brilliant of Moriarty.”

“They just want to talk to her. But I need your help to get her there. For whatever reason, she trusts you. I think if she knows you are there, it will go smoother for her,” he adds. “As long as you keep your mouth shut.”

“What?” I shrug.

“You know you get under the superintendent’s skin,” Lestrade points out. 

In fact, there are not many people I rub the wrong way. People so rarely like to hear the truth. If Lestrade knew that I had crossed a major boundary with you last night, he’d have run my head into the table and broken several specimen’s with my face. 

That alone, I know I should make my apologies to you and stay away. Though if he really cared, he would have called. 

***   *   *   *   *   ***

**Lucy**

Your footsteps echo up the stairs. I brace myself for your entrance. Will you be aloof? Will you apologize and deduce it away? I’ve had the morning to think about the events of last night. I have come to the conclusion that I have no conclusion. When I make a list of what I desire in a mate, the only characteristic that you possess is loyalty. On all other counts, you barely pass the grade with only a little or none at all. But Jesus, I felt alive when you kissed me.

I sip my coffee that I walked down the street to get. Unfortunately, I felt guarded the entire five minute stroll. However, it was nice to go without a chaperone or alerting someone of where I was going.

“Afternoon,” I try to sound as nonchalant as possible. Too chipper would give me away. I don’t take my eyes from the telly, suddenly engrossed in the weather.

You look at your watch. “Yes, afternoon.”

You fidget with your coat and scarf while I remain curled up in your chair. 

“You went out for coffee?” You ask.

“Yes. It was cold but it was nice to walk by myself like most adults,” I say.

“How did it feel?” You sit across from me.

“Unsafe,” I look directly at you. “I hope that will change.”

Your face relaxes for a moment. “It will until the next thing happens.”

I laugh. “That’s very comforting, Holmes.”

So we are going to pretend you didn’t attack me passionately last night and if you had not ran away that we’d know a lot more of one another.

You lean forward. “I saw Lestrade this morning.”

Now you have my attention. “And?”

There is no way you’d confess. My phone would have buzzed the moment it left your lips.

“Apparently the Chief Superintendent wants a word with you,” you say. “My word is not enough, I gather.”

Secretly I’m disappointed it was not a confession to my fiance.

“I suppose I’m not surprised,” I sigh. “When is this supposed to happen?”

“This afternoon,” you sit back in the chair. “Shall I call and say you aren’t well?”

“Why postpone the inevitable? We’ve nothing to hide.” I catch a glance in your eyes. “I mean, we were the good guys, right?”

A smile tugs at your lips. “Those were my thoughts exactly.”

***   *   *   *   *  ***

**Sherlock**

Against my wishes, we take a taxi. I am very concerned since we have not found our driver from the night we were taken. I wonder if he knows that we saved his life when we killed Moriarty - he never leaves witnesses and travels light. 

You ask about what I’m working on. We avoid last night completely. Part of me knows it must be addressed, but right before we meet Lestrade is not the time. I haven’t decided if I want it happen again or if it should. 

“Lucy,” Lestrade says warmly as you walk into his office. He kisses you deeper than I like. My eyes narrow and fists clench involuntarily. 

When you part, your eyes switch to me. You appear flustered.

“How do you feel?” he asks holding you at arm’s length.

“Sore mostly. A little nervous on the streets,” you move to the chair across from his desk. “When is your night detail done?”

“Soon I hope. I miss being able to see you,” he says. 

I sit beside you. “Where is the Superintendent?”

“He should be here soon,” Lestrade takes his place behind his desk. “Now Lucy, by no means is this an interrogation. They just want to doubt check against what Sherlock told them.”

You look to me. “We did society a favor, correct?”

“In my mind, there is no doubt.” I fold my hands on my lap. 

“There’s no denying that a world without Moriarty is a better place. The Super wants to know it was done in self-defense and not cold blood,” Lestrade says.

“Us, cold blood murderers,” you scoff looking over at me.

“Shooting you was just a cover up,” I offer with a smirk.

“Try to aim better next time, Holmes,” you nudge me.

“Children,” Lestrade scolds us.

The Chief superintendent joins us a few minutes later. He is an unimpressive man of slight build. He’s seen very few crimes scenes but has only ever practiced shooting a gun in the safety of a range. By his posture, he spends more time sitting behind the desk scouring for free pornography websites than he ever did in the field. Despite his inflated salary for such little work, he chooses to shop in discount bins and thrift shops. He smells faintly of mothballs and cats - of which he has seven, no nine. 

His tone is condescending as he leans against Lestrade’s desk. His beady eyes stare at your chest and legs. Hitching one leg over the corner reveals one black and one blue sock. I dislike him immediately.

Per Lestrade’s instruction, I remain silent. I allow you to go over the events of that night.

You recount the hours you were alone with Moriarty. I never asked and you never offered the details. I swallow hard, knowing I will not enjoy what I hear.

You say that you felt sleepy in the taxi and when you opened your eyes, you were huddled in the corner on the cold ground. Moriarty hovered over you with his maniacal grin. In his hands, a faded and tattered wedding gown about two sizes too large. 

After detailing his plan for revenge against me, he dropped to one knee to propose. He was less than pleased with your response and pushed you against the wall. He pressed his mouth against yours and you turned away. That’s when he bit down on your neck and left that fading bruise. 

My knuckles go white as I grip the arm of my chair. The strain on your face makes me want to assault his corpse again. 

Lestrade doesn’t blink - he’s heard this before. I can see the bile rising in his throat.

After taking a sip of water, you continue. Moriarty threatened to torture me in front of you if you did not cooperate. You did as he said and changed into the smelly wedding dress. What he did not realize was that you concealed a small yet powerful pistol in your panties. When he turned his back, you positioned it where it would be retrievable. You did not get to use it until you were already on the ground. 

The superintendent listens with glistening lips. He enjoys the more salacious details. He grills you over the order events until I finally crack.

“Are you deaf, man?” I growl.

“Just making sure we have all the facts, Holmes,” he says snidely.

“I think we have everything,” Lestrade stands. 

The Superintendent looks over his scribble. He did not even write anything pertaining to the case on that pad. He nods authoritatively. “Yes, I think we are done here.”

You mouth ‘thank you’ to Lestrade. 

We all stand. I’m ready to take you home after that bit of unpleasantness. 

“Do you want to grab a coffee?” Lestrade takes your hand. 

“Don’t you have detail?” she asks.

“I have a little time. I’ll drop you back at the house,” he smiles. 

“Okay,” you nod a little uneasily. 

I hover nearby and linger putting on my coat. 

“You won’t have to escort me home,” you smile turning to me.

“Very well,” I nod. 

You lay your hand upon my arm. I feel the warmth through the layers of wool and polyester. 

“Thank you for coming with me,” you say softly. 

“Anytime, Lucy,” I nod. 

Our gaze holds while Lestrade rummages for his keys. 

“I’ll see you at home,” you say. 

There is nothing left for me to do but leave. While putting on my gloves, I dawdle and peer through the office window. I watch him gather you in his arms and place what looks to be a sloppy kiss on your lips. My jaw tenses. This is not the side of the glass I want to be on, I am realizing.

“What are you looking at, freak?” 

I hear Donovan’s grating voice beside me.

“Sally,” I regard as I button my coat. I take a deep breath. “I’m rather sorry that it never worked out with you and Anderson. I thought you were perfect for each other.”

“What are you on about?” she frowns. 

“You don’t smell like him,” I smirk.

“Right, because I smell like myself,” she scoffs.

“Right. And he smells like the new receptionist,” I say. “Good day.”


	21. If it takes all night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock can't sleep at night

** Sherlock **

“Sherlock, what are you doing in here?” You bolt upright in bed.

“I couldn’t sleep.” I rub my forehead.

I was in my room when you came home. It was later that I expected. However, the violin and reading John’s blog could not bring me sleep. I could not force Moriarty and what he put you through put of my head.

“Why are you in here?”

“I saw the body and yet I still don’t  trust it. What if he made someone look like him,” I lean forward in the overstuffed chair in the corner of your room.

“That sounds a bit far fetched.”

I can see you frown in the darkness.

“You don’t know what he’s capable of,” I say.

“I think I do,” you say gravely.

I nod. “That’s right, you do.”

“You look frightened. Are you afraid he’s going still get us from the grave?” 

“I need undeniable proof that you are out of harm’s way,” I rest my elbows on my knees.

“And you…” You add.

“I don’t care about me. I can take care of myself.”

“Excuse me, who saved your life? After being shot?” You challenge.

My heart stops. It is true that I am here tonight because of you.

“Lucy, I know I can never repay you for what you’ve done for me,” I hang my head. I cannot resolve the need for humility with you and my inclinations to be myself.

“Sherlock, come here,” you pat the empty spot on the bed beside you.

Against all better judgment, I sit beside you. The heat from your hand penetrates the thin fabric of my pajama bottoms. 

“What is really wrong?” Your eyes probe mine in the dimly lit room. 

My mind goes white like a blank sheet of paper. “I-I…”

“You should talk to someone, John or Mycroft,” you suggest.

I look at your small hand. “No, that’s not what I need.”

“Then….”

I cut you off as I lunge for lips. It’s less awkward this time as I cradle your cheek with my left hand. It takes a few seconds for you to register my lips moving against yours in desperate hope that you’ll let me in. 

Your heat matches mine as you lean into me and your hand travels further up my thigh. The sensation causes disruptions of all logical thought. I don’t know why or how, but I need to be as close to you as physically possible. 

Your other hand curls around the back of my neck, locking me in place. 

Suddenly you pull away. “Are you sure you want this?”

You don’t have to define it, but I know exactly what you mean.

“Yes,” I nod. “I don’t really know I’m doing. This is not my area.”

You touch my face. “It’s okay, I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t want to think of that right now,” I say.

You press your lips to mine again. “Have you….ever?”

“Long time ago.” A sudden shyness hits me. I never thought about it, maybe briefly with Ms. Adler. What man wouldn’t when a woman is tossing herself at you? I also knew that it would never happen.

“You let me know if you want to stop, or it doesn’t feel right,” you run your fingers through my hair causing pin pricks across my skull.

I feel like a hopeless virgin and an angry passion rises from my stomach.

I kiss you hungrily, wrapping my arms around you. I can still taste your mouthwash. Your hands trail from my neck across my back before they push my dressing gown off my shoulders. A tightness develops in my pants; I remember this from yesterday when you were pressed to me. As your fingers creep under my shirt, I shudder. All I hear is your breath and my heart. 

Your hands lift my shirt over my back and stomach. 

“Let’s get this off,” your breath is hot against my neck. I throb more.

Like a child, I allow you to undress me. Your fingers brush across my stomach and chest. You are staring at my torso oddly.

“I don’t have a third nipple, do I?” I ask.

“I don’t know what I expected,” you smile. “Someone bony and slight perhaps.” You touch my shoulders. “But you aren’t.”

Our lips collide in a fever again. Your fingers leave hot trails across my skin. I want to feel you, but I don’t know where to start. Somehow, you read my mind and take my hand in yours. 

You place my hand on your breast. “Touch me.” 

It’s firmer than I thought it would be. Under the thin fabric on your shirt, I feel your nipple harden. I let out a sigh. It’s not like I have never seen bare breasts. If I have touched them, they were during an autopsy - not passion inducing.

I capture your mouth again having decided that your lips are my favourite. I enjoy how the feel and move against mine. Tentatively, my fingers graze the soft skin of your back. You sigh into my mouth indicating I can continue exploring you. Your stomach is hot and soft layers cover the tighter muscles below. I know this is due to your inability to go the gym or run for the last month. I don’t care if you are fleshy, you feel amazing to me.

You pull away and remove your shirt. I know I am gawking like a prepubescent boy, but I have never seen such a sight. My eyes slip to the bandage at your side. Shaky fingers reach for it. 

“We should stop. You’re not well,” I swallow. 

You grab my hands. “We aren’t stopping on my account. If you don’t want to…”

“But your side,” my voice cracks.

“We’ll be careful,” you place my hands on both your warm breasts. 

We kiss slowly, your tongue dancing with mine. Your hands travel over my chest around the curve of my shoulders. You lead me close to you until our bodies touch. Our kiss grows heated once more. I’m mindful of your side as we lay back against the pillows. You wince as my weight presses into you. 

“You’re not medically ready for this,” I whisper.

“Oh trust me Sherlock, I am very ready for this,” you declare. “Let’s switch. That will take the pressure of it.”

I lean back against the pillows and watch you straddle my hips. Your warmth presses against me, and I feel myself harden again. 

“You seem rather ready yourself,” you grin. 

You abandon my lips for my neck, and while my lips are aching, the rest of me wants to feel your mouth. I move my hands across your shoulders down your back to the lacy edge of your panties. I am not sure I have the courage to move lower, even if I’ve noticed the curve of your behind a little more lately. 

I lead you back to my mouth so that I can explore. I brush aside your hair and see the fading memory of Moriarty’s deed. Gently, I press my lips to it in hopes that I can heal his wrong. 

The Sherlock I’ve fought to repress has taken over completely. I feel things inside and out. When you touch me, it’s as if you’ve reached inside and massaged my heart. When your hips move against mine, I arch my back in an effort to get closer. 

Your fingers dance across my stomach to reach lower. They slip under the waistband of my pants and touch my erection. I gasp at the sensation, one I don’t think I’ve ever experienced. I might have had intercourse before, but I was young and so was she. There was no finesse, just the act. 

“Are you okay?” you ask.

I can only nod, the pleasure is more than I can handle. My orgasm is building, and this is not how I want to end this night. 

“I don’t want it to be over yet,” I sigh and stop your hands. 

You smile. “I understand.”

You grab the waistband and pull my pants off freeing me of the tightness. Your panties join my pants on the floor. 

“Wait,” I say. “I just want a moment to remember you like this.”

“You’re making me blush,” you say. 

“You’re extraordinary,” I take in the curves of your hips and thighs, the roundness of your flesh and look in your eyes. If I were a painter, I would want to forever capture this moment. 

“Are you done?” you move closer. 

“Yes.” I take your hand to aid you joining me on the bed again. 

This time when you straddle my hips, it’s you I feel against me. My hands travel from your knees up your thighs, your hips while your hands caress my stomach, my chest. I swallow hard feeling the dampness between your legs. I’ve had strange dreams about this, and it was never as good. You lift your hips slightly and lean forward to kiss me. I wrap my arms around you. When you settle back against my hips, your warmth envelopes me slowly. 

“Oh,” escapes from my mouth. 

You move against me causing my fingers to grasp your thighs tightly. I don’t recall it feeling this incredible years ago. A flutter develops in my stomach and spreads to my hips and pelvic area. Your breath and the creak of your bedsprings fill the room. 

You kiss me and whisper. “Sit up.”

When I do, I slide in deeper. “Oh God.”

Your hands cradle my face as your kiss deepens and your pace quickens. The flutter builds. My extremities tingle and hum. Your arms wrap around my neck, your teeth graze my shoulder. I feel the sweat of your lower back. My panting matches yours. I attempt to move my hips to your rhythm. My legs have lost all feeling as my orgasm climbs. I kiss your damp neck and rest my lips in the crook of your neck. 

The flutter becomes a blaze that moves from my stomach, down my legs - from me into you. My back stiffens as I am filled with a warmth that travels across my skin, into my blood vessels all over my body. 

“Oh Lucy,” I gasp. 

You don’t stop there. You bite your lower lips and a look of deep concentration clouds your face. I feel you tighten around me. You are close to orgasm. While my body is exhausted and satiated, I want you to experience the ecstasy I just did. I grab your hips to aid their movement against me. Your breath hitches unevenly in your throat.

You whimper softly against my neck. My senses fill with the sweet smell of your sweat and our sex mingling. You whisper something I cannot understand with your heavy breathing. I feel you release and slow your movements. 

Our lips meet as you still against me, our hearts thundering in time. Brushing your hair from your face, I can see your pink cheeks. 

Taking a deep breath, you wince and look at your side. 

“Are you all right?” I pant.

“I think I may have popped a stitch. Can you take a look for me?” you ask.

“Of course. Let’s go to the bathroom,” I say. 

Before we emerge to the harsh light, I pull on my pants and you put on your shirt. We’ve just shared the most intimate moment two people can share, but we are modest in the light. 

I kneel before you, and start to remove the dressing. 

“Am I hurting you?” I ask.

“Look at you, all concerned now,” you tease.

“Twice I’ve injured your side,” I point out as I spy the top stitch has come undone. The area around your stitches are a little red. “We should put some antiseptic on it to prevent infection.”

“Would you mind?” you ask. 

“Of course not.” I go about the task of dabbing your stitches. I cannot help but be reminded of why they exist. 

“Hey,” you touch my face. “Stop beating yourself up over it.”

I nod tightly as redress your wound with fresh bandages. “There. No more exerting yourself tonight.”

“No worries, I’m rather satisfied tonight,” you joke. 

I feel my cheeks warm. 

“Did I just make the great Sherlock Holmes blush?” you laugh.

“More than once tonight,” I stand. “That’s quite an accomplishment.”

Staring at you in this post-coital glow, I feel out of my depth. My desires have been satiated leaving only raw emotion. 

“Come on, let’s get you tucked in,” I say. “You need your rest.”

An overwhelming part of me wants to tuck you into bed and retire to my own. I know I would stare at the ceiling until morning came, perhaps reliving the night we shared. Instead, I crawl in beside you. You attempt to hide your surprise. 

“Is it okay that I stay?” I roll over on my side. 

“Yes, if you want,” you say. 

“For a while.” My eyes feel heavy. 

Your arm rests against mine. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight Lucy,” I inch a little closer.

Within minutes, your breathing becomes heavy and even. Though I fight the heavy feeling taking over my body, I slip into a deep sleep. Deeper than I’ve had in a long time. 


	22. What an odd hangover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For every night, there is a morning. Sherlock and Lucy must face each other in the harsh morning light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kudos and hits. It really means a lot.

**Lucy**

It’s still dark when I wake up from the pain. Perhaps I should have listened to you and taken it a bit easier. I don’t expect to see you still in my bed. There you are, sleeping on your stomach beside me. I watch the muscles in your back move as you shift and breathe. I blink a few times to be sure I’m not dreaming. 

Who are you, Sherlock Holmes? A brilliant mind. A consulting detective. An infuriating flatmate. A lover? 

The last one I never expected to cross my mind. 

Later today, we will have to deal with this. I’m still wearing Greg’s ring. Could I even manage a relationship with you? Being your flatmate has been difficult at times, I can’t imagine being your….girlfriend? 

Carefully, I crawl out of bed to take some pain medication. I quickly check the mirrors for any distinguishing marks on my flesh. Just the fading bruise I received over a week ago. I’m sore all over from our lovemaking. Is that what it was? Was it just sex? I got the impression that it was more than just feeding a physical need for you. For me, it was definitely uncovering a mystery. It’s been a long time since I felt so….complete after sex. That should happen with my fiance. 

I drag myself back to bed. You are now on your side in the middle of the bed. I consider going to your room to sleep. Instead, I settle beside you. Your nose twitches and your eyes flutter. I wonder what your dreams must be like. They have to be different from ours.

What will the morning bring? I don’t expect a new Sherlock, but certainly something must change. And I have to tell Greg. He won’t want to marry after that. Yet, you work with Greg and that will complicate things. Maybe I stay silent for all involved. 

The medication makes me sleepy. I gaze at you before I surrender to sleep again. I want to remember how you are now - peaceful and beautiful.

*  *  *  *  

** Lucy **

The rain slams against my windows as my eyes flutter open. The room is grey like outside. I turn my head and see the indent on the pillow beside me where you slept. The flat seems quiet. Are you even here? There is a part of me that would be content to roll over with the covers over my head. My stomach and bladder have a different plan. 

Wearily, I drag myself out of bed to find some bottoms and warm dressing gown. I never cared about this before, but I run a brush through my hair. After a quick stop in the loo, I ready myself for the indifference that is inevitable. Maybe it would be an easy way out. 

You sit at the dining room table with the paper and a cup of tea. You are still in the same clothes as last night. I would have thought you would have disinfected yourself. 

When I walk in, you don’t look up but ask, “How did you sleep?”

Your tone makes me think you might have blocked the entire night out.

“A bit sore,” I say. “I got up last night for medication.”

“I know,” you look up. Is that the hint of a smirk? “Perhaps next time you will listen to my medical advice.”

Next time? For what?

I smile uneasily. I have no idea who this person sitting at the table is. Your curls are a mess from last night. The last time I saw you this disheveled was the night you came home polluted. 

I need a cup of tea or a glass of wine. The milk, of course, is sitting on the table instead of the fridge. Thankfully, it is still cold. I fix my tea in a haze while I glance at you, contentedly reading at the table. You don’t greet with a hug or a kiss, but you don’t hide in your room or at St. Bart’s. I have no clue what this could mean. 

My stomach is knots - I don’t think I could manage anything more than this tea. If I drink my tea in the kitchen, you will think I regret last night. That would be untrue. I just don’t know what to make of it or you. You were everything I never thought you could be. With a deep breath, I join you and sit across from you at the table.

You set the paper down. “How is your side? Have you checked it this morning?”

“No, not really,” I say.

You motion me to you. “Come here then. Let’s have a look. Can’t have you getting infection.”

I hesitate. You stare at me. “I know I’m not a doctor, but I’ve watched John.”

I am afraid how I will react to your touch. I walk over to you and brace myself. With one hand, you lift my shirt enough to see the bandage. Your fingers are warm as they brush my skin. My flesh jumps. 

“I won’t bite,” a smile spreads. “We’re not there yet.”

I laugh nervously. Are you flirting with me? 

Carefully, you pull the dressing down to look at the incision. It’s still a bit red. You touch the raised skin.

“It’s a bit warm. We’ll want to keep an eye on it. Maybe have John take a look,” you look up.

I rest my hand on your shoulder. Though your hands are not near it, I swear you can feel my heart pounding. Your hand lounges on my waist as we both try to sort what to do next. A warm sensation builds across my hips and down my thighs. I could just climb on your lap and kiss you again. I don’t think you’d stop me either. Your pupils dilate, I’m sure you can sense if not smell my desire. 

A knock causes me to jump away. 

“Are you expecting John?” I ask.

“No,” you say.

“Mrs. Hudson?” 

You shrug casually. With a tight stomach I go to the door. Greg walks through the moment I open it. If I had any food in my stomach, I would vomit. 

“Greg…you look terrible,” I gasp. 

The dark circles under his eyes look like bruises. “Detail was all night long and we got nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” I don’t dare look at you. My greatest fear is that you will let something slip. 

Greg drops a small kiss on my lips and I hear you sigh in disapproval. “Sherlock.”

You regard him with a nod and go back to your paper. 

“Looks like you are having a lazy morning,” Greg says noticing neither of us are dressed. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” you say gleefully. “I’ve almost finished the paper.”

Your smug smile is for me, I know it. 

“Look, I came here with some bad news,” Greg says. “I have to to go to Wales for a few days.”

“Why?” I frown. I need to talk to him while I have courage - and you coursing through my body. 

“There might be a connection to the gangs and activity in Wales. It’s an unnamed source - but it’s all we have.”

“Do you need me to go?” you ask.

I’m not sure what terrifies me more - you alone with Greg or me. 

“No, the Super is running this and quite frankly, he doesn’t care for you,” Greg says. 

“Splendid. The feeling is mutual,” you smile.

“I wish you had tried a bit harder to not cross him. I could certainly use you,” Greg sighs. 

“Take excellent notes for when you return.”

“When do you return?” I ask.

“Three to four days,” he places his hands on my shoulders. “Then maybe we can start moving you into my place.”

I have no words. It will never happen - not now. That’s nothing I can bring up at this moment. I nod numbly. 

“Maybe Sherlock can help you move the small things while I’m away,” he kisses my forehead. 

I feel sick to my stomach. Not more than ten minutes ago, I was imagining myself riding your lap. 

You grunt in derision behind me. Greg thinks it is your distaste for labour. 

Greg looks at his watch. “I’m sorry. I have to run home and get showered. We leave this afternoon.”

“No, I understand.” I’m relieved, actually. 

I walk him to the door. “Be safe.”

“I will be.” He dips his head and kisses me deeper this time. Instantly, I know something is missing. Instead of wanting more, I want it to be over. 

“I’ll call if I get anything I think you can use,” he calls to use. 

“Splendid!” You could care less. 

I close the door and listen for his footsteps down the stairs. I can’t even look at you, my everything is in a jumble. I know I cannot carry on with Greg. He is a good man and deserves a good woman. That, I am not - not after last night. I barely gave Greg a second thought as your hands wandered over my skin. Now it was time to do the right thing and let him go. 

I go to the window to see him get a taxi out front. The rain falls lightly, but dark clouds loom to the west. Another lashing is moving in. 

You appear in front of me. 

“Are you all right?” your voice is low. 

“Yes,” I am distracted.

You take my left hand. Your thumb runs across the band of Greg’s ring. “Given recent events, you may want to consider taking this off.”

Your stare bores into me. Are you trying to say something without saying it?

“I wanted to talk to him today,” I sigh. “It’s not a conversation that can be rushed.”

“I’m sure he’ll be quite upset when you tell him we’ve had intercourse,” you still hold my hand. 

“I didn’t plan on telling him. You work together and are friends,” I say. 

“We’re not close friends….” you shrug.

“Sherlock, you know what I mean. It would needlessly hurt him,” I say. I have to know. “It was one night.”

Hurt flickers in your eyes. “Was I that unsatisfactory?”

“That’s not what I meant,” I close my hand around yours. “I cannot do anything until I talk with Greg.”

I don’t think either of us are ready to lay anything out on the line just yet. I need to end things with Greg and see what happens next. I am relieved that you don’t see this as a one night stand or grave mistake. Yet, I’m not positive you know what you want, and that scares me. Your emotions run deeper than a puddle - but is it a shallow pond, raging river or ocean?

You step closer. “If you weren’t planning on telling Greg about last night, what’s a few more days?”

“What?” I shake my head. 

Your fingers brush my side. “I’ll be more gentle.”

I don’t know whether to kiss you, or punch you. I do neither, and instead stalk off to my room and slam the door. I’m not sure what you enjoy more - screwing me or screwing Greg.

***  *  *  *  *  ***

**Sherlock**

You finally leave your room three hours later. Your eyes are puffy and cheeks flushed. I haven’t sorted out why you might be crying. Failure at a relationship? Intercourse with a flatmate? Perhaps the emotional toll of week, you finally gave in. I glance at the calendar and it all makes perfect sense. It is the 29th day of your cycle. 

You apologize half-heartedly for storming away. I decide to do the same for my insensitive comments. I am not really sorry, but I am not versed in the art of seduction it would appear. 

Since seeing you naked, it has distracted me for most of the day. When I think of last night, I feel that familiar stirring. My blood pressure jumps and palms itch. Even Ms. Adler’s most forward advances never caused me to flush this much. 

It reminds me of the weeks where I do not have  case. I twitch and sweat. I’m irritable and highly inflammable. John once threatened to move out during a dry time. I feel a bit like that tonight. Instead of researching Wales and giving Lestrade any assistance, I find myself on sex websites. Not looking for it, but how to do it better. 

When you walk by, I switch webpages. It’s been a quiet night, and I do not want to set off your hormones again. At ten o’clock, you announce you are going to bed. Your side is sore. When you close the door, I know I am not invited. 

* * * * *

It’s now been 42 hours and 37 minutes since we had intercourse. I have spent 25 hours thinking about it. I attempt autoeroticism on myself, but it ends with me being frustrated and sweaty. It is clear that what I really desire is to fornicate with you again. I prefer your softness and sighs to emptiness of lying in my own bed. Now, I just need to convince you that you desire it too. 

You emerge from your room after having a lie in for a few hours. With a yawn, you nod to me and make yourself some tea. You watch me out of the corner of your eye as I make some tea beside you. You attempt to keep your focus. You eye me when I move about from the laptop to the microscope. 

“What are you trying to do, Holmes?”

“What? I’m doing my work,” I glance up from the microscope. 

“Shirtless? Since when have you strutted about the flat shirtless?” you cock your head. 

“Am I strutting? I hadn’t noticed. Is my physique distracting you? I recall you rather enjoyed it.” I smile. 

“Are you trying to seduce me, Sherlock?” Your frown lines are deep. 

“Only if it’s working.”

“I haven’t talked with Greg yet,” you sigh.

“You removed the ring, I see,” I nod to your left hand. 

“It only seemed decent to do it. Listen, I don’t know what I unlocked inside of you, but I’m not ready….”

I see that I’m losing ground quickly. In order to get the desired results, I need to switch tactics. 

“I apologize if I seem eager or insensitive to the situation. I have never experienced what I did the other night, even if I was not a virgin. I’ve attempted to recreate the feeling on my own, and it was incredibly disappointing. It is not close to being the same.” I stand before you. 

Your scowl warms to a smile. “No, it’s not the same.” You let out a chuckle. 

I see you melt before me. “We are an odd pair…”

You raise an eyebrow. “Pair?”

“You know, flatmates with….”

“If you say benefits, I will slap you,” you warn. 

“Potential,” I answer. 

You let out of full belly laugh. 

“I didn’t think I was being humorous,” I step closer. 

Your smile fades as my hands cradle your face. 

“Sherlock,” you whisper in protest. I interrupt any further discussion with my lips. 

***  *  *  *  *  ***

**Lucy**

I should have known tonight would be trouble as soon as I saw you shirtless. Not even your dressing gown over you, just bare-chested like the day you were born. Yet, I figured you came out in a newborn black suit. Thinking of you as a child is foreign concept, but thinking of you as a lover was once foreign too. Now we kiss like it’s just something we do. 

I know you’ve been plotting this. You no longer gaze at me with shame and guilt. You try to mask the sheer want in your eyes, but I can see it swim around your pupils. Even when working, your eyes follow my every movement. 

I expect your kiss to be hot and demanding, but it’s gentle and slow. I feel a quiver as you pull away to see if I’m going to strike you for being so bold. 

I’ve watched you fake many things. I’ve seen false sincerity and nonchalance. I’ve heard your forced laugh and feigned interest. Lately, I know there is nothing false when it comes to me. I heard your pleas at my bedside. I know it was your hand caressing mine as I wavered in and out consciousness. I know that you care deeply for me - I just don’t know where that will take us.

 I should wait until things are settled with Greg before I even give this a consideration. Why must my body betray me when it comes to you? Instead of shoving you away like I should, my fingers entwine in your hair to pull you closer. 

As my hands slip down your smooth back and over your buttocks, you moan against my mouth.

“Do you ever wear jockeys under there?” I ask between kisses.

“Sometimes, but I never will again.” You crush me to you so I feel your hardness against my stomach. That’s all I need to get my juices flowing. 

I push you on to my chair and crawl on your lap like I envisioned the other day. For a control freak, you don’t seem to mind my lead. 

You don’t think I notice the webpages you flip from. Knowing you, I’m sure you’ve researched proper foreplay and lovemaking for this occasion. I’m interested to see what you have learned.

Your hands slip under my shirt and touch the bandage.

“How is this?” You ask.

“Still sore. I’ll need to be on top again,” I say 

You nod. “I look forward to the day when it’s my turn on top.”

Your unabashed optimism and boldness cause me to blush. It seems you have no doubt this is a new clause in the flatmate agreement. 

Carefully, you remove my shirt. 

“Black lace?” You grin. “For me?”

“I did not plan on you seeing this.”

“I don’t think I ever really appreciated women’s undergarments before,” your lips brush the lacy line around my breast. For a sexual novice, you are doing well. 

Your fingers fumble over the back clasp. Clearly, blind removal of a bra was not something you researched. I give you a few seconds to struggle.

“Can I help?”

“These are beautiful but a bit of a torture device,” your voice is muffled in the crook of my neck. 

“Try wearing one,” I say. “Here, allow me…”

“No, no. I will conquer this apparatus,” you growl. 

I’m sure my bra will not survive the night. 

After a little more struggle, you say, “Success.”

You pull the straps down past my elbows. You stare at my breasts with uncertainty. 

“Is something wrong?” I lean back.

“This is not me,” you blink as if waking from a fog. 

Suddenly, I feel exposed and glance around for my shirt. Instinctively, I cover my breasts with my arms. What was I thinking sleeping with you?

“What are you doing?”

“You’re right,” I say. “This is not us.”

“I never said I didn’t want it to be. I never envisioned I’d be staring at your nipples,” you move my arms and kiss my collarbone. 

Your lips travel down to my breasts. I allow myself to relax and wrap my arms around your neck. Your kisses are a bit too soft. 

“This is how you do it,” I whisper in your ear. 

I proceed to kiss your chest using my tongue and graze you with my teeth. You gasp and arch your back. When I do it again, a little harder, your nails dig into my skin. Your hips buck up to meet mine. 

“Like that,” I smile. 

“I have read that they were useful for something,” you breathe. “Now I know.” 

When you look at my breasts again, your look has gone from wonder to hunger. You kiss them again, your teeth nipping lightly. I rock against you, and you bite harder. Your shaking fingers work on the button of my pants. 

“Get these off,” you demand in whisper. 

You are not one for long foreplay and I am relieved. Most men take forever thinking that all women want gentle foreplay to get them ready for soul sharing lovemaking. I am not one of them. I want the passion and desperation of lust. I long for that moment when two become one, eager to please each other and ourselves. I want skin on skin and sloppy kisses. 

I peel off you to remove my pants and panties in one motion. I don’t plan to give you a few minutes to soak the sight in. I want to feel you writhe under me. 

I grab your hand. “Come on, lay of the floor.”

“The floor?” you look surprised. 

“I don’t want to stain the chair,” I pull you up. 

“Alluring and practical. I admire that,” you beam. 

I make quick work of pulling your pajamas down. You pull me to you roughly and kiss me hard - your large hands cupping my bare arse. 

Our mouths fight for dominance. There was the sensation of your skin on mine just burning me from within. I’m not sure where to touch first.

You lay on the floor, taking me with you. We could have retired to one of the two bedrooms in the flat, but they seem so far away right now. 

I cover you with my body to hover just out of reach. You pull my hips to you impatiently. 

After a few more seconds of teasing, I sink down on you. Your blue eyes roll out of view. Watching you allow control slip from you is a rare treat. You are always self-contained and wound so tightly. I always saw you covered in an impermeable shell. Not tonight. Sexual contact seems to be your weakness. But if that is true, why didn’t Irene entice you to bed?

I watch you as I move slowly. You neck cranes back while your hands slide up my thighs to my hips. My hands caress your stomach and chest. The rug scrapes my knees as I quicken my pace. I found the right angle and plan to ride it all the way to the end. Luckily, you do not protest. 

You try to muffle a moan, my name escaping your lips in a climactic whisper. I’m so close, every movement bringing me closer. My knees are burning and raw, but I don’t care. My own voice escapes as I utter a string of nonsense. I think there was a Jesus and a God in there.

Exhausted, I collapse on you and catch my breath. You sling one arm across my back lazily.

“I am beginning to understand why people kill for this,” you pant.

We lie there, unable to talk or move, and just bask in the afterglow of satisfaction.

Sex is easy for the most part. Slot A into Slot B. It’s the after part that is tricky. Do I get up and shower? Will we sleep in the same bed? Will you go back to work?

“Fancy some tea?” You ask.

“Um, sure,” I pause. “Are you expecting me to make it?”

“No, you worked hard. I will make it.” You notice that sweat has made my bandage lose. “You should take care of that.”

“Right,” I gather my clothes and head to the bathroom.

I feel sticky and uncomfortable. Peeling the bandage, I’m glad to see that no damage has been done this time. I finger the scar tenderly. Somehow this mark will bind us forever. I turn on the shower to hot. The room fills with steam. As I wash my hair, cold air rushes into the room.

“Your tea is ready,” you announce and close the door. 

A few minutes later, I hear your violin. I don’t recognize the song, but it’s beautiful. It’s not sad or angry, just beautiful.


	23. So it begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy must solve the Lestrade problem

**Lucy**

It’s a rare bright day in London, but I don’t notice it. I wish it were raining to match my mood. I pause at the stairs and listen for any movement upstairs. I hear nothing. You mentioned needing to go out. It must be something with the case. 

When I push through the door, I ignore the mess from your breakfast. The milk is out - again. Is it an oversight or another experiment? I sigh looking at the flat. Between our chairs is the spot we last had sex. Last night, you paused by my door but I did not encourage you to visit. The thought of your hands on my body, I almost opened my door or went to your room. I knew before I succumbed to my desires, I needed to end things with Greg.

I flop to my bed and stare at the cracks in ceiling. Of course Greg didn’t understand. He protested. He cried. He wondered what he did. I took the ring from my pocket and placed it in his shaking hand. In the interest of your working relationship, I told him the shooting had changed me. 

In a way, it had. You and I have danced around our feelings for months. Something about facing death forced us to confront it and give in to the attraction. 

Even if we had not slept together, I would have ended it with Greg. He is a good man who deserves a woman who is passionately in love with him. I was never that woman. I enjoy his company. He treated me better than anyone ever has, and perhaps that is what I fell in love with. That’s not enough to sustain a lifetime. He deserves better than that. Maybe one day, I will deserve it too.

Once again, I have left the nice guy for the emotionally unavailable. We have not discussed what it is we are doing. Perhaps that is best. We will surrender to our passions without any real commitment. These types of relationships burn bright and fizzle out. What I need to do now is try to enjoy whatever it is we have. For a novice, the sex is pretty decent. Knowing you, you will only strive to improve of which I can only benefit. 

A job. I need a new job for when I need a new residence. For the last month, you have been paying my way as I was told to ‘not worry about it’. When this all falls apart as it only can, I will need to have a place to go.

My mobile buzzes. While I don’t feel like playing catch-up with an old friend, I want to get out of my own head. Jenna and I had been to school together and flatmates for five years after. Unlike me, Prince Charming came to save her quickly and whisked her away. Now she was the mother of two school aged girls while I shag my sociopathic flatmate when not dodging bullets. 

When we last spoke, things were getting serious between Greg and I. It was before the break-in and first kidnapping. Of course, word gets around and Jenna just heard about my holidays. 

I tell her about the kidnapping. She is understandably shocked at my casual tone. Perhaps I should be more traumatized. Maybe that’s my fascination with you - PTSD. However I’d be lying if I said those thoughts never crossed my mind before. 

She asks if the rumor is true - I am engaged to be married. 

“I was,” I pause. “Until this afternoon.”

“What happened?” she gasps.

I try to explain that my ordeal with death changed me. I realized that I love the person Greg is, but I’m not in love with him.

“I had been forcing it. It was fine dating. Forever is a long time to regret marrying the wrong man,” I explain. “It would not be fair to him.”

“Is there someone else?” she asks.

That’s the question always asked when a relationship ends. You weren’t the cause but perhaps a catalyst for a change that needed to take place. 

“No, there’s no one else,” I say. 

Just then I see your shadow in the hallway and hear the floorboards creak beneath your shoes. Your steps echo into the den.

How much of my conversation did you hear? I must be loosing my touch. I didn’t hear you on the stairs or unlock the door. Then again, I don’t remember locking the door. I’ll get an earful for that. 

Jenna and I chat some more. I try to lower my voice as I give her details of short engagement.

“Who is this flatmate that puts your life in so much peril?”

“He is a consulting detective,” I answer simply.

“I’ve never heard of that,” she scoffs.

“He is one of a kind,” and she has no idea in how many ways.

Jenna promises to see if her husband’s company is hiring. Employment is essential. We bid farewell and promise to keep in touch. We live in different realities. All my friends with kids drift away.

I set my mobile down on the bed. I have to emerge from room at some point. You will have deduced that I ended my relationship with Greg. Given your libido lately, I fully expect to find you naked on the Chesterfield. 

I see you’ve cleaned your mess from breakfast. You are knocking about in the kitchen. 

“Evening,” you say behind me.

“Hello.” I feel awkward like a girl on a first date. I don’t know if we should be greeting each other differently. 

You study my face. “Are you all right?”

I nod and let out a sigh. “Yes. I, uh, ended things with Greg.”

“I gathered,” you say. 

“I made no mention of you, or anything that has occurred in the last few days. You work together and I don’t want to get in the way of that,” I offer.

You smirk. “That was very thoughtful of you. I’m sure he will find out eventually.”

“Perhaps,” I say. I do not look forward to the day that Greg discovers we betrayed him - his friend and his lover. A wave of guilt sweeps over me and I feel like I cannot breathe. 

“Let’s get a bite to eat,” you suggest grabbing my coat. “I have not eaten since breakfast.”

“You, eat twice in a day?” I look at you. 

“There is a first time for everything,” you say almost tenderly. I might be reading into your tone, but I know you mean to cheer me up. “Come on. I can use another opinion on this case I’m working on.”

“You want my opinion?”

“If not your opinion, your company,” you hold my coat in a most chivalrous way. 

Gently, you slip my coat over my shoulders and give them a small squeeze. Deep down, you are pleased that Greg’s ring has been returned. 

***  *  *  *  *  ***

**Sherlock**

“Good morning, John,” I say as he gets out of the taxi.

“You are certainly chipper this morning,” he eyes me suspiciously.

“There is some credible evidence. The body of the taxi driver turned up in Wales of all places!” I chime. “I only wish that I had been able to accompany Lestrade when it was discovered. They would have been back in one day instead of four.”

While a part of me loved the thrill of finding of evidence, if I had gone to Wales I would have missed another night of intercourse with you. Solving crimes always provides a rush. Yet I never know when the next case could pop up. I still have so much more to explore with you. A sexual Pandora’s box nests inside us both - waiting to be opened and investigated. That thrill is hard to deny.

“Do you feel better that he’s been found?” John asks as we enter the building.

“Am I still suspect of taxi drivers? Yes. Knowing he is dead makes me feel mildly at ease,” I ascend the stairs. 

Lately my energy level has been extraordinary. I need to research the effects of sexual intercourse on the body’s physiology. 

“Have you told Lucy?” He asks.

“No, why would I?” I eye him suspiciously.

“To put her mind at ease,” he shrugs.

You were still sleeping when I left. While this side of our relationship is new, I became quite aware during supper that last night would not be a night for fornication. Your mood was forlorn. I thought you would be relieved to not be betraying Lestrade anymore. 

“I’ll tell her if I see her tonight,” I shrug casually. 

We push through the doors of the morgue. Molly looks up expectantly. 

“We’ve been waiting for you,” she turns crimson and fiddles with her hair.

“Am I late?” I glance at my watch.

“No, no. The detective will be right back,” she moves to obtain the body from the drawer.

” Lestrade will be joining us?” I realise the pitch of my voice is slightly elevated. 

“He stepped out for a call.” Molly wheels the taxi driver to the middle of the room.

I want to give him the same treatment that I gave Moriarty’s body. I know it means nothing to the corpse, but I would feel better for a moment. 

“Let’s begin.” I remove my coat swiftly.

He was a slight man with bony wrists and fingers. He needed the gas to overtake the two of us. I’m sure you could have easily taken him. 

I glance up at Molly who hovers rather close. “What do you have for date of death?”

“I have him two weeks postmortem.” Her voice is unsure.

“John, would she be correct?” I challenge.

John steps forward to examine the body. “They wanted it to look like blunt force trauma.”

“Isn’t it?” Molly frowns and fidgets more.

“The yellowing around the eyes suggest something more toxic. Similar to the gang overdoses,” he looks to me.

“They wanted it to look like a crime of passion or brutal force when it was something more sophisticated,” my eyes dance across the skin of the man who held us captive.

I have examined many enemies in my days. Usually I am amused that they are the ones of the slab as I breathe over them. Today, I am filled with such revulsion the stench of the formaldehyde makes my head ache. 

“How long has been dead?” I ask.

“No longer than a week,” John offers.

“But I thought Jim…I mean Moriarty would have killed him after he delivered you,” Molly stutters.

“He never got the chance. His plan was to always deal with the driver later. Someone else has carried out his wishes,” I say coldly.

“Are you saying that Moriarty might have been a pawn?” John squints incredulously.

“I’m sure he was a mastermind. Too much ego to take orders. A partner in it for the money and not the thrill is possible.” I hate to entertain the notion. If that is true, we are still in danger.

“Sorry. It was my mother,” Lestrade bursts through the door.

He looks terrible and more unkempt that usual. Clearly, he’s been up all night and not from another detail. His eyes are rimmed with red and a bit glassy as if he might cry at any moment. His stare cuts through me, but I was certain that you did not tell him about us. Perhaps he is more perceptive than I took him for. 

“Sorry,” he ducks his head. “It was a long night.”

“On detail?” I ask casually.

“No,”he peers down at the body. 

“Tell Lestrade what you’ve discovered,” John says.

“What?” I blink. Your breasts flash before my eyes.

“About the driver,” John urges.

“Oh, yes,” I clear my throat and my mind. “This man died after Moriarty. Someone else was working with him or on his behalf.”

“I was afraid of that,” Lestrade sighs. “Hopefully this person didn’t care much for Moriarty or feel compelled to honor his wishes in regards to you.”

“Are thinking that Lucy could still be in danger?” John asks.

I straighten my back. “I was afraid of that.”

“What will you do?” John looks to Lestrade.

He blinks and looks at me. “I could put a man on detail if she wants. Not sure if he told you or not but…we…we…we broke up.”

Molly gasps behind us. All eyes turn to her and she turns crimson again.

I hold my breath. “I’m sorry to hear that, Lestrade.”

John’s eyes switch to me. “No, Sherlock didn’t mention it. When did this happen?”

“Yesterday. She returned the ring.” His face pales. “Said she had been thinking and….couldn’t go through with it. She cared for me….but it wasn’t enough.”

John’s eyes are still on me. “Did Lucy say anything?”

“We’re not girlfriends, John. We don’t paint our nails, do each others’ hair while gossiping.” I roll my eyes. 

Lestrade shrugs hopelessly. “That’s why I’m a bit off.”

“That’s understandable, Greg,” I say smoothly. “Show some compassion, John.”

John’s eyes widen with a glare. 

A weak smile spreads on Lestrade’s face. “Thanks Sherlock.” There is a hint of surprise in his voice. 

“We can talk tomorrow about the case and your findings in Wales,” I clasp my hands behind my back.

“I’ll phone tomorrow morning.” Lestrade turns on his heel and leaves the morgue. 

“Do you need anything else?” Molly asks.

I smile. “I think we’ve seen enough. Are you satisfied John?” 

He looks perplexed. “I guess so.”

I wish I could say that I felt no satisfaction in the demise of your engagement to Lestrade, but I do. In retrospect, I wish it had never happened. 

John’s short legs rush to keep up with me as exit the building.

“What did you do?” He stops me.

“What do you mean? I have no idea what you are talking about.” I pause clearly annoyed.

“You knew about them breaking up,” he stated defiantly.

“I overhead her on the phone, but that was it,” I shrug.

John is unsure. “You didn’t seem upset.”

“Why would I be upset? She didn’t end her engagement to me.”

“Most people feel bad when something terrible happens to them, Sherlock,” he scolds.

“Like being shot or losing a parent. Or even finding out you have a fatal disease. These are things to feel ‘terrible’ about, John. A relationship didn’t work out. There’s no need to grieve unless you were in it,” I snap. “Besides, we both know it was never going to work.”

“Can you see into the future?” he crosses his arms.

“When there is a future. There was no future there,” I say plainly. “Let’s grab a bite and go over the evidence.”

I keep John longer than he tells Mary he’ll be. While he runs to the toilet, I text you. 

Out with John while he grabs a bite. Home soon - SH

Ordered take away. Leftovers in fridge - L

You are already in your room when I arrive home. The light creeps through the bottom of the door. I don’t knock, but sweep in filled with desire. You are surprised at my boldness, but are receptive to my advances. Though I instigated the act, you take the lead and give me oral gratification. It is amazing. I haven’t decided which I prefer, your mouth or vagina. Both are extraordinary and I wondered how I went so long without them. 

I wish that I could return the favor, but I have only just begun my research on pleasing a female in that manner. There are times during our coitus when I wish I had more experience. After all, a man of my age should not be fumbling like a virgin. Yet, you never make me feel like a novice of which I am grateful. In most areas, I am superior. In this arena, I cower to your expertise. It is my goal to become the best lover you’ve had, and you’ve had many.

Feeling audacious, I allow my hands to explore you more. I read about manual manipulation as a tool for arousing. I take your sighs and arching back as positive reinforcement. 

Tonight with your urging, I gingerly lie on top of you. The sheets sting my knees as I move above you. My climax is is greater than the previous nights and I cry out rather loudly. 

“Is your side all right?” I ask while I catch my breath.

With a smile, you nod and yawn. “It’s fine.”

You curl on your unwounded side and drift to sleep within moments. 

Tonight, I watch you drift deeper into slumber. Your breathing is slow and deep. While I take no satisfaction in Lestrade’s strife, I am rather glad he is not here. Many nights it was me lying next door wishing he was not with you. I resented every night he was here. Indeed, I was thankful it was him crying alone tonight. 


	24. Cupid was a stupid man in a diaper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where John finds out....

**JW**

I step onto the sidewalk in front of my old flat. Though it’s been years and I’m very happy with Mary, I feel a sense of sadness when I look upon 221B. It was here where I got my life back, had it ripped from me and learned to start over again. I felt a sense of relief as I handed Lucy my key, but I miss the excitement that living with a high functioning sociopath can bring. 

The front door is open as I’m certain you forgot to lock it. Mrs. Hudson bustles out of her door as I reach the stairs.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hudson,” I chime.

“John, how lovely to see you,” she breaks into a smile.

I drop a kiss on her cheek. “Are you well?”

“Quite. You know my hip acts up in the weather. Luckily, it has been a little warm and sunny.” She pats her left hip. Funny, I thought it was the right hip. “How is Mary, and the wedding plans?”

“Mary is wonderful and plans, I have no idea. That’s Mary’s area really. I just do as I’m told,” I smile.

“Good man,” she pats my arm. Her eyes glance up the staircase. “Should be safe to enter. I’d say they finished up about ten or fifteen minutes ago.”

“I’m sorry?” 

I can only guess what your recent row was over. Milk? Food? Telly? 

“The bed clearly needs replacing. New beds don’t make that racket,” she shakes her head.

“What?” 

I cannot believe what she has insinuated. 

“I’m off, dear,” she waves before she is out of the front door.

I look up the staircase. I hear no sound. She must be hearing an experiment or something. I chuckle to myself as I climb the stairs. Pressing my ear to the door, I hear nothing. No telly, no movement - and certainly no creaking bed springs. I knock on the door.

“Come in, it’s open,” you call.

You sit at your desk wearing only a sheet as you flip through my blog. 

“You didn’t think to dress? You knew I was coming,” I sigh.

“It’s Tuesday,” you shrug. 

“Ah.” I had forgotten about Tuesdays. “Did you find something interesting? I’m guessing that is why I was summoned.”

“Mycroft called with another one of his pet projects,” you roll your eyes. “Something I am not to refuse.”

Lucy exits the kitchen with two steaming mugs of coffee wearing a dressing gown and not much else. No, Mrs. Hudson could not be right.

“Oh,” she stops startled. “I thought you were coming at ten.”

“It is ten,” you call. “Time got away this morning.”

Her cheeks flush. “Oh.” She sets one cup in front of you. 

“Thank you,” you say almost tenderly. 

The look in your eyes nearly elicits a gasp from me. Was that affection?

“I’m going to shower. If you’ll excuse me, John,” she says. 

“I’d join you, but that would be rude with John here,” you grin. 

“Sherlock…” she scolds before turning violet. 

“Um, have I walked into an alternate universe?” I sit down as the room spins.

You chuckle, but do not answer.

“Are you two…..?” My voice trails off.

“Having sexual intercourse? Yes,” you answer simply. 

“For how long? Wait, were you two when we saw Lestrade?” I ask.

“Not with any regularity,” you turn in your chair.

I close my eyes. “Can you fix your sheet?”

You rearrange yourself. “John, you know it has been leading to this. This is what you wanted.”

“Maybe before Greg and Lucy got engaged,” I protest. 

You cock your head. “John, I saw you at the hospital. You cannot tell me you didn’t secretly hope this would happen.”

You are right. Ever since I saw a spark, I hoped you’d come around to tell her that you had feelings for her other than sheer tolerance. How you went from being stoically in love to downright cheeky about sex….well, I’ll never understand the leap.

“So, what does this mean?” I ask. “Are you together?”

“We haven’t really discussed it much beyond her ending things with Lestrade…which has happened,” you look back to the laptop.

“Do you now share a room? Are you exclusive?” I ask. 

You twist your chair towards me. “I’m not sure why it matters to you.”

I shut my mouth. I should have known the day we met with Lestrade that you beamed a little brighter than usual. Sherlock with a girlfriend? 

***  *  *  *  *  ***

**Lucy**

“When are you moving out of this dreadful flat?” mum asks the moment she crosses the threshold. 

Suddenly I feel that my morning cleaning this place was a colossal waste of time.

“I see no reason to leave,” I close the door behind her. 

“Is that flatmate of yours in his mind palace again?” Her face twists as if she smells something foul. I know she doesn’t, I scrubbed anything that could be rancid. 

“He’s out,” I say. 

If she only knew that I was shagging ‘that’ flatmate on a regular basis. 

“Really Lucy, hasn’t your life been in jeopardy enough while living here?” She lays her coat on the back of your chair. “When are you moving in with Greg? I wish you went there instead back here.”

“Mum, his place is two levels. With my injury, recovery would have been difficult. I didn’t fancy sleeping on the sofa,” I sigh.

“An injury you got from this freak,” she snaps.

“Would you like some tea, mum?” I ask through gritted teeth. 

“Please,” she settles herself in my chair.

I escape for the moment to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Can I really stay in here until it’s done? I tried to push her off as long as I could, but mum has a way of forcing herself into my space. 

“How are you mum? How was your trip?” I ask from the doorway.

“Short since I came home to see if you would live,” she says. 

Really, I can do without these mother and daughter afternoons.

“Give me some good news. Let’s talk wedding,” she folds her hands in her lap.

Saved by the tea kettle. I follow the whistle to prepare our tea. Extra milk and sugar substitute for her, and milk and sugar for me. I have dreaded telling mum that the engagement is over. I’m shocked she didn’t notice my naked ring finger yet. With a cleansing breath, I deliver the tea to the parlour.

“Here you are mum,” I place it on the table beside her. “Tell me about Chicago and Aunt Vera.”

“Well, her husband is positively loaded. They live on what is called the Gold Coast. “The flat, excuse me, condo is as large as five of my flats - on both floors. And she has this dreadful cat that I am sure I was allergic too. I have to have all my clothes laundered since there is cat fur on everything I brought.”

I listen to her prattle on about Aunt Vera who married an American businessman and did live the high life in America. The American dream, mum says. Meanwhile, poor mum had to raise her only daughter all by herself. Really, no one suffers like mum. 

“So, wedding news,” she announces out of the blue. 

Suddenly, I’m slammed back to reality. I glance at my watch. I never have any idea when you might be home. Rarely do you text me with estimated time of arrival. That’s what couples do - and I’m not certain we are a real couple. 

“Mum, I have something to tell you,” I steel myself against your upcoming wails.

“What’s wrong?” Her face pales.

“Greg and I have decided to call off our engagement,” I say quickly. 

“Beg your pardon,” her voice is low. 

“We are not getting married,” I state again. 

“Why ever not? Did he abandon you in your time of need??” Her voice becomes a shriek. 

“No mother. Facing death makes things clearer to both parties. We are not meant to be together. I was rebound for a failed marriage and he was the first nice guy I dated.”

“Precisely. He was a nice chap with a steady job. He was the first one to offer you anything real unlike the knobs you have brought home. Remember Steven? Your father - bless his soul - would turn in his grave if you ever married Steven,” she huffs around the flat. 

“Leave Dad out of this. It’s done,” I growl.

“Is there any chance of a reconciliation? You didn’t give the ring back, did you?” 

“Of course I did. It is the decent thing to do,” I say.

“Did you end it?” She places her hand dramatically over her heart.

“Yes, mother. It was MY decision to end it. It would have been wrong to marry a man that I did not love.” My voice was steady as I said those words. It will be some time before I even introduce to her to the concept of you. That is, if we ever get as far as leaving the apartment together. 

As she gasps, her hands fly to her mouth. “Lucy. He was a nice man! The best you’ll ever get. How could you?”

“Thank you for your confidence, mother,” I hiss. 

I hear the click of the door. How do you do that - creep up the stairs silently?

“Afternoon,” you nod your head. 

“Hi Sherlock.” I wish to God that I could run into your arms right now. 

“How are you, Mrs. Adams?” You ask as you remove your coat and gloves. 

“I’m well, Sherlock. What do you make of this nonsense?” she asks.

You raise an eyebrow. “Nonsense? It looks like a perfectly fine cup of tea to me.”

Now I really wish I could kiss you.

“Greg and Lucy. Don’t tell me you support this?” she huffs.

“Mother, do not involve him in this,” I bark.

“He must have an opinion,” she says.

“About Lestrade and Lucy?” your eyes switch to my mother. 

I hold my breath. You rather enjoyed shocking John the other morning. You look as if you are ready to give my mother a proper heart attack. 

“Mrs. Adams, I assure you that I have no thoughts on the matter beyond the fact that I do not need to search for a new flatmate,” you say smoothly. 

“I think you are being foolish,” mum snatches her coat from the back of your chair. “I cannot understand why you would let a perfectly good man go to spend one more day with the man that put your life in danger!”

Your body tenses. It is a sore spot with you, and she has no idea that you pulled the trigger. You stroll over to the laptop and become engrossed in whatever is on the screen. 

“Mother, if you cannot control yourself, I will have to ask you to leave. It is my life and I wasn’t about to ruin another man’s life just because he was nice and safe.” 

My hands ball into fists. It’s been years since I’ve let her get to me like this. I’m not sure what I hate more - the words she is saying or that you are hearing them. If this becomes anything, how will I tell her?

“Fine, do what you like,” she shoves her arms into her coat. “You do anyway.”

She stalks to the door but turns for one final blow as she reaches for the doorknob. 

“When you end up alone and out on the street, do not come knocking on my door!”

With a slam, she is gone. 

Neither of us move. You blink aimlessly at the screen, but I can see your mind working on some kind of response to what just happened. 

“I really love her visits,” I sigh.

You twist towards me. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I knew she’d be disappointed. I have a feeling it is more about not planning a wedding than my happiness. I did not expect her fly off the handle like that,” I run my hands across my face. 

You stare at me, a bit shellshocked. 

“I’m sorry she went off on you,” I offer.

“I understand why I was not greeted at the door with a kiss,” you muse.

I smile. “Have I ever?”

“No,” you shake your head. “Not that I would mind.”

I cock my head. “Really? Something so domestic as that?”

“I always enjoy your lips. Why not have them greet me?” you smirk. 

I cross the room to stand before you. Your arms wrap around my waist as I brush the hair from your eyes. They have softened; they only soften for me. 

“It would appear that we will not be making an announcement to your mother any time in the near future,” you say.

“What’s there to announce? Mum, I shag my flatmate now?” I chuckle. 

A wounded look hits your eyes. “I hope it’s a bit more than that.”

I touch your cheek. “Yes, of course….I mean….we never really talk about it.”

You guide me down to sit on your lap. “I don’t think we need to discuss it. I talk all the time and I like that I don’t have to with you.”

You don’t know women, and yes, we like to be reassured that our emotions are being mirrored. 

Wrapping my arms around your neck, I kiss you deeply. I am still angry with mum, but I know you will help me work off my frustration - perhaps twice. 

***  *  *  *  *  ***

**Sherlock**

John’s munching is always a little distracting. I never noticed how loudly he chewed his food until I lived with someone else. It appears that Mary has him on some sort of diet restriction. Usually, he orders pasta or steak when we dine. Lately, it has been salads with chicken. I miss the quiet days of mushy pasta. 

I stare well past him knitting the details of the last gang death. Turns out the young man was a member of Mensa - not a typical troubled youth. Most of the members do not fit the gang mold, yet dress the part. I suspect that Lestrade thinks that I am to blame somehow for the demise of his relationship with you. He is holding something back and has sent most files through a lackey. 

I have no way of knowing if you would have left even if I did not initiate that first kiss. Though I do miss being on the inside of his confidence, I am more grateful you are not marrying him.

“So, how are things?” John asks.

“This case is most puzzling,” I thread my fingers together. “It has something to do with Moriarty, but I don’t know who. Moriarty doesn’t like to share the spotlight or anything with another person.”

“I meant with Lucy,” he adds.

“Oh that.” If I won’t discuss my relationship with you, I’m not sure why I would chat to John about it. I think things are fine. Yes, I’d prefer to have intercourse nightly, but I’ve read this is an unreasonable expectation.

John raises his eyebrows. “That? Trouble already?”

“No, nothing like that. Why do people feel the need to talk about a coupling as if it were a separate entity?” I frown. “How we you AND your relationship?”

He sighs. “Just making conversation. It’s a bit momentous that you have a girlfriend.”

I groan. “I loathe that word.”

He puts his fork down. “What would you call her?”

“Usually by her given name,” I answer. 

“If you had to introduce her to someone, how would you do it?”

“She knows everyone I know - even Mycroft,” I shrug. 

“Pretend it’s someone she doesn’t know,” 

I hear the frustration in his voice. “My flatmate? My partner?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Never mind,” he grumbles. “What are you doing for Valentine’s Day?”

“February 14th? What do you mean?” I ask.

“You know, for Lucy. Christ Sherlock, you do know you need to do something for her, right?” He folds his arms.

“To celebrate a man who was beaten and beheard? Seems a bit odd,” I muse.

“I know you are new to this, but if you do not want incur the wrath of a woman, you need to do something romantic for her,” he says.

I know he is right. 

“Every woman on the street will be walking around with jewelry or flowers,” John states.

“What are you doing?” I ask. 

“Flowers and a fancy dinner at a French restaurant,” he shrugs. “However, it will be too late to get a reservation at any restaurant now.”

“That’s helpful,” I glare. “What kind of flowers?”

“Bunch of roses. Women love roses,” John offers.

I nod slowly. This is the price I pay to be near you. I admit that when I make you smile I am filled with a warm feeling. As much as I enjoy my climax during sex, I relish bringing you to orgasm as well. Those moments in which we catch our collective breath and you hold me tight are some of my favourite minutes in the day. 

“Roses,” I scratch my chin. “I think I can manage that.”

***  *  *   *   *** **  
**

**Lucy**

The streets are bustling with people carrying bundles of flowers and chocolates. My mind slips to what Greg would have done today. Dinner and flowers at least. He was romantic, just not my soulmate. Not that I’m sure I can say the same for you yet. Perhaps soulmates don’t exist in reality. 

Valentine’s Day never phased me much. I never have a boyfriend on February 14th, so I never have it much thought. On the rare occasion I have someone in my life, I’m disappointed by their lack of participation. I expect this year to be no different. When I left you this morning, you barely lifted your head from the files and microscope enough to wave me out the door. 

Another terrible job interview. It was clear that they had no intention of hiring me the moment I walked in the door. The hiring manager interrupted me to look at his computer and answer emails. I nearly walked out mid-sentence. There was no work anywhere short of Tesco’s. I’d like to think I had not sunk that far down the corporate ladder. As inane as my other job was, it was something to do during the day. I was feeling more useless as the days went on. I wasn’t one to keep house, and it’s not like you keep a regular schedule anyway. What would be the point of having supper ready for my ‘man’ when I never know if he’ll even be home?

An overwhelming floral scent hits my nose when I reach the bottom of the staircase. Does Mrs. Hudson have a suitor on Valentine’s Day? That would make sense. The smell only gets stronger, bordering on noxious, as I climb the stairs. This is coming from our flat. My hand catches on the railing as my head spins a bit. Oh God, please do not be from Greg in an effort to win me back. 

The door is unlocked as I turn the knob. I am met by a wall of rose perfume. I cannot see anything but bunches of roses in the flat. Both chairs, the side tables.They surround the dining room table and block the telly. I cannot begin to guess how many dozens litter the parlour and dining area. Single roses are tossed on the floor leading to my room. I follow their trail to find even more dozens roses of all colours taking residence in every corner. There has to be more than 100 in the entire flat. 

I glance at the bunches for a card or anything. They have to be from you. You’d never allow Greg deliver roses to me. I search for you, or anything. 

I find you behind two dozen roses sitting in your seat. 

“Sherlock….was this all you?” I ask.

“It’s Valentine’s Day, is it not?” you stand. 

I nod. “To most people, it is.”

“I asked John what most people do for this day. He said a bunch of roses,” you say honestly. 

“I think he meant one bunch, not all the bunches,” I look around the flat. 

“I was making up for not getting a reservation at a fancy restaurant,” you say.

“You tried getting reservation?” I feel like I’ve walked into a flat the looks a lot like mine, but this world is not.

“No, I hoped these made up for not wanting to dine in public,” you move closer. 

For a moment, I am impressed by the floral assault. How many girls have walked into a display like this? Then the dining in public hits me in the face.

“Do I embarrass you?” I don’t hide the annoyance in my voice.

“What? Why would you say that?” You tilt your head. 

“You don’t want to be seen with me,” I toss back. “Greg always said that he felt proud when I was with him.”

Okay, perhaps that’s a name I should not have dropped. Instantly, I regret it. 

Your shoulders hitch up in annoyance. “I am not ashamed. I barely know how to be with you in these four walls. We both know I am not…” You search for just the right words. “Very good at this.”

You still cannot say it. “It’s easy to hand over money to a florist,” I snort

“Or several,” you interrupt.

“Whatever. If it means nothing, what’s the point?” I shrug.

“Does it look like nothing to you?” Your nostrils flare. “Fine, since you are the expert, where are my chocolates and flowers?”

You have me there. My mouth hangs open with no response. 

“I honestly did not give you enough credit,” I admit.

You didn’t expect me to back down so soon. Your shoulders relax.

“While I’m disappointed that I have no present, I will forgive you.” You step closer.

I lost this one, I know. “I am sorry.” 

The look in your eyes know that to be forgiven, I only need to remove my clothes. For someone who never showed an interest in the female form, you attempt to take a nightly interest in it now. I hope I am enough for your appetite.

You glance around the room and break into a grin. “So for future reference, this is too much?”

“So many roses, so little room,” I muse.

You press your lips to my ear. “Happy whatever day.”

Your breath against my neck always weakens my knees and loosens my pants. My arms wind around your waist and I tilt my head up to meet your descending lips. Your hands envelope my face as your tongue invades my mouth. I never tire of kissing you. 

I pull away. “Are you hungry?”

Your smile says it all. “Famished.”

You walk me backwards until the dining room table hits my back. Your kiss is so hard and demanding, I lean back as your hands plant on either side of me. It clear that you want to baptize the table.

After I unbutton your shirt, my hands rest on your belt. 

“Not yet,” your hand stops mine. 

My hand cups the bulge in your trousers. “Are you sure?”

“Very,” you bite my lower lip. 

You slip my coat off my shoulders to pool behind me on the table. My blouse is pulled over my head to be tossed to the next room. One hand unclips my front-closure bra while the other pushes my skirt up past my hips. 

My hand slips from your shoulder across your stomach to rest on your belt again. 

“Not yet.” There is a bite to your tone. 

One arm wraps around me as your lips travel from my neck to my breasts. Immediately, I feel the sharp pain of your teeth on my nipple. I gasp in pleasure. You learn quickly. You bite harder, then suck gently. I hope you don’t torture me too long. I might have to push you to the floor. 

Once you think my breasts have been properly aroused and erected, you move lower - across my ribs and stomach. 

“Lie back,” you order.

This must have been a plan since all the usual instruments have been removed. I didn’t notice that the microscope and everything had been cleared until now.

I kiss you hungrily before I do as I’m told. Your fingers slide up the outside of my thighs slowly. Hooking your fingers on the waist band of my nylons, you ease them over my hips and off to join my shirt. 

I wish I owned a pair of old fashioned garters. That would have been sexier than wrestling me out of my control top nylons. Though, you don’t seem to mind. 

I feel your lips in the inside of my knee. My heart jumps - this is new. Your fingers slide up the other thigh. As they press against my panties, you know I’m ready. One finger slips under the damp fabric while your lips take their antagonizing journey up the inside of my thigh. I arch my back as two fingers slip inside and move in rhythm. 

You stop kissing me to watch me move against your fingers. They leave me as do my panties. 

“Can I touch you now?” I whisper. 

“Not yet,” your head dips between my thighs. 

I always thought the prospect of something so unsanitary would turn you off giving me oral sex. The smell, the mess…..but you are perfectionist. I had done it to you - the loudest I heard you yell - so you will return the favor. 

You pause, your breath hot against me. I fidget waiting for your touch. Finally, you lips close over me. Your hands push my legs apart to give you more access. Your tongue is tentative at first - unsure of the sensation. It enters me in quick darts. I try to hold still but hips want to grind into you. You swirl it around before pressing it against my clitoris. 

Instinctively, I bury my hands on your hair. Your tongue flicks it faster and faster until I cannot control my hips. 

“Yes, oh…just like that,” I encourage you. 

Your fingers enter me again to move in time with your tongue. Every few seconds your tongue stops to suck, then goes again. There is no way I can hold my orgasm until we have sex. I hope to God that Mrs. Hudson has gone out for the day because I’m moaning and calling out loudly as the warmth spreads up from my legs to my hips to hum against your mouth.

“Oh fuck Sherlock!” I scream. 

Unlike most men that have a tendency to over stimulate the area once I’ve had my orgasm, you know to pull away. You look shocked and pleased. 

Everything is humming in my pelvic region and I know I have another one in me. 

“Get over here,” I growl. “I want you in me now.”

You are startled by my blatant demand. “Let me get cleaned up.”

“I don’t care,” my hands fly to your trousers. Roughly, I push them down to your knees. 

“Move up a little,” and you climb on top of me. 

There is no need to touch you. I press your lower back into me. With one thrust, you groan. 

“You feel….” you whisper. 

I kiss you hungrily. You moan into my mouth. The perfume of my want fills my nostrils as you drive harder and harder into me. The table shakes under us, but we don’t stop. My nails dig into your back feeling that warmth lingering. You are close too as you thrust faster. The wood squeaks and groans under us. 

“Oh, Lucy,” you moan.

There is an ear splitting crack just before two legs of the table give out, sending our bodies slamming against the fallen table. 

“Are you all right?” you ask with panic in your eyes.

“Don’t stop,” I move my hips against yours. 

With a wicked smile, you begin again. With the table now on the floor, you have better traction and get deeper. Within seconds, I’m clawing your back in ecstasy. As I’m coming down from my orgasm, you reach yours. You are even louder as you call my name among something in another language. 

We pant, still joined, on top of a pile of splintered wood. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day. We need to buy a new dining table,” I run my fingers through your sweat dampened hair. 

You laugh against my neck. “How will we explain this to Mrs. Hudson?”


	25. Wedding Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mary's big day

**Sherlock**

Shouting on the street below wakes me with a start. I bolt upright. Slowly, the argument fades down the road. It takes a moment to remember that I’m in your bed. I find myself here more often. Lying with you feels safer somehow.

Carefully, I settle next to you again. I wish I could say you are picturesque with your hair splayed out on the pillow like gold ribbon. It’s all in your face as you curl in a modified fetal position. Not perfect, but still pleasant.

My jaw is sore from the evening’s activities. I had not counted on that. I am fairly proud of my first attempt at pleasing you orally. The aroma and taste were not as unpleasant as I had read. In fact, your scent lingers on me even after a shower; and I rather enjoy it. 

I did consider inviting you to join me while I cleaned up - also a first. Shower intercourse was rated as difficult to impossible. However, I am determined to be successful. Now, just to find the right time. I could see that you were exhausted from breaking the table.

I wonder if you and Lestrade fornicated in our shower. Some nights, I dislike that I lie in the same space he once knew you carnally. I never heard you cry out for him like you have for me. Was that out of sheer boredom or the usual flatmate politeness? I have considered asking, but I have been told it would be rude to do so. 

Tomorrow, we face Lestrade together - well, as together as we can. John and Mary are having some sort of wedding get together that is not the wedding but will have the same people invited to the wedding. Why not just get married then and save us all the trouble? 

Regardless, we are required to be there with all kinds of people who know us. We decided, or rather it was you, that we should keep a low profile. I would hardly call us demonstrative in our flat. I cannot imagine that it would be different in public. It’s for Lestrade’s benefit, I’m certain. You do not want to hurt his feelings or create an awkward scene at John and Mary’s party. Tomorrow night, I am to pretend that I do not know the contours of your body and the way you taste. However, will Lestrade see through the veil? After all, he knows what it is like to want you. 

Lestrade will need to know at some point. I know he still wants you. I have seen the emails and text messages. He needs to know that you will not be returning to him - and you have chosen to be with me. I know it will stress our friendship and work together. Hopefully only for a short time. He will see that he was not meant for you and move on. Perhaps to Molly. She’s always fancied him. 

Together, we face all the people that know that I almost ended your life. The intent does not matter, just the action. You hold no ill will in regards to that night. There are many others that do not see your point of view. I imagine them trying to poison you against me. I can hear the calls for you to move out and leave the ‘Freak’ to live and die alone. There are times that I worry you may actually listen to them. 

“Why are you awake?” your sleepy voice asks. 

“I heard shouting outside. Did I wake you? I can go to my room.”

Your hand wraps around mine. “No…just go back to sleep.”

As you close your eyes, hand still holding mine, I feel contentment mixed with anxiety. 

*  *   *   *  *  

**Lucy**

“Are you almost ready?” You bellow from the hallway. “Mrs. Hudson is on her way up.”

I hate my red dress. When I bought it back in November, it fit perfectly. With being in the hospital and recuperating from the shooting, my body has changed and not for the better. It will have to do. I have nothing else between what I would wear to work and a ball gown. I slip on the impossible heels that match and work my way to the door of my room.

“The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave,” you say glancing at your phone.

“He’s your best friend. Wait, your only friend,” I correct myself.

You look up, wounded. “What are you?”

“A flatmate with potential, according to you.” I straighten my nylons. After last night, I needed a new pair.

A wicked grin spreads on your face. “In that dress, I see so much potential.” 

“I guess you approve then?”

You inch closer. “Very much so.” You twist your wrist to check your watch. “We have a little time.”

“You said Mrs. Hudson was on her way up,” I suppress a giggle.

“It will take her at least ten or fifteen minutes.” You reach around my waist.

On cue, the door opens. I jump away. It’s likely that she is aware of our relationship as my bed is very noisy. Yet, we haven’t ‘come out’ to anyone but John. 

“Oh Lucy, you look beautiful!” She exclaims. “Sherlock, doesn’t she look beautiful?”

“That she does,” you nod with the hint of a grin.

“You look lovely,” I return the compliment.

“This old frock,” she smoothes down her floral chiffon dress. “Where is your tie, young man?”

“You know very well that I do not own a tie,” you say.

You are in one of your many black suits. I don’t think I’ve seen you in anything else - save for pajama bottoms. You’ve paired your suit with a crisp red shirt threatening to burst at the buttons and pelt the room machine-gun style. It’s then I realize that we match and it will clearly raise suspicions.

“That shirt looks a bit snug. Don’t you have another clean? How about that lovely pinstriped one?” I ask.

You run one hand down your trim torso, to torment me I’m sure. “But I like this shirt.”

“I think it’s very smart, especially since you refuse to wear a tie,” Mrs. Hudson points out. 

“I do not own a tie,” you correct her.

“I gave you one for Christmas ages ago,” she counters.

“And I gave it to John.” You shrug. 

Then she sees it - what remains of the table in a pile of firewood on the floor. “What happened to my bloody table?”

You look over nonchalantly. “It broke.”

“How?” She surveys the pile.

“I leaned against it.” You shoot me a lustful gaze. 

I cannot help but turn red and try to hide a grin. 

“Oh Sherlock,” she scolds. “That was an antique.”

“No, it was not. It was a barely passable Edwardian knock-off.” You wave your hand dismissively.

“It’s coming out of your rent, young man,” she states.

“It will be replaced next week with a much sturdier table.” Your tone is placating.

I slip on my coat while you and Mrs. Hudson bicker. 

“Get a new mattress while you are at it. Yours is very squeaky and keeps me awake,” she says, with a gleam in her eye.

I go from red to violet.

“Will do, Mrs. Hudson,” you chime as we follow her out. Behind me, you cannot resist the urge to squeeze my buttock with your hand.

I swat your hand away and hope that you will not be this cheeky all night.

We all pile into a taxi with me wedged between you and Mrs. Hudson. Your hand is pressed to the outside of your thigh while you run your forefinger along the outside of mine. I swallow hard, torn between nudging you sharply in your ribs and straddling you in this car.

When you know I’m looking, you bring your fingertips to your nose and crack an impish grin. You are a dirty bugger. I have created a monster.

Mrs. Hudson seems completely unaware of our silent flirting as she goes on about the party.

“It’s so nice to have a festive occasion to look forward to after all the strife of last year,” she says, then sighs. “Too bad it is only one wedding.”

Swiftly, my head turns to her. You lean forward - to glare I’m sure. My amorous mood crashes when I remember that I will see Greg for the first time since I returned his ring.

“Oh, don’t worry dear,” she pats my leg. “It was for the best. Better you realise now he’s not the one.”

You roll your eyes, but bite your tongue for my benefit. 

My stomach is in knots as we pull up to the restaurant. After hopping out of the taxi, you offer your hand to me. I wish we could walk into that party with hands joined. Suddenly, I want to tell everyone that we are together - whatever that means. But tonight is about Mary and John, and Greg does not deserve that. It’s about being sensitive. 

As I slip my hand in yours, I give you a small squeeze. 

“Thank you,” I smile. 

“Anytime,” you say warmly. You duck your head in. “I’m coming round to get you, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh Sherlock,” she coos.

“Such a gentleman,” I wink.

“Always,” you go around the car. 

“Hello,” chirps Molly. 

I can tell by the look in her eye that she knows about Greg and me. 

“How are you?” she asks. 

“I’m feeling much better. Now just to find a job,” I attempt to sound jovial. 

Molly doesn’t hear a word I say. She flutters to your side as you help Mrs. Hudson from the car. 

“You look nice, Sherlock,” she gushes. 

“Molly, you’ve seen this coat at least one hundred times,” you frown. 

“Well, I mean….um…your hair,” she stammers.

How did I never notice how sweet she is on you?

You hold the door open for Mrs. Hudson. Molly rushes to pass by you with a breathless thank you. 

You roll your eyes then turn to me with a tight smile. “Let the games commence.”

***  *  *  *  *  *  ***

**John Watson**

I should have told Mary. I watch the guests stream into the engagement party and realise it is too late. If I tell her now, she’ll just worry over a scene. At least this way, I’ll be the only one to have a stroke.

Greg circles the room with his eyes on the door. He tugs his shirt collar and runs his hand over his head. I’m surprised he came tonight. His engagement ended not more than a few weeks ago. This must be difficult for him. But he knows Lucy will be here, and that’s why he is here. 

Mary beams beside her mother, tonight’s benefactor and host. She’s lovely in her light blue dress and smiling eyes. Suddenly, I’m glad I didn’t ruin this for her. I take her hand and place a kiss on her palm. 

It’s possible you won’t turn up. This is not your sort of thing. I had to almost blackmail you to be a part of the wedding. Mary can’t see why I care so much to have you involved at all. If it were not for your great disappearing act, I would not have met Mary. Indirectly, you are responsible for tonight. 

If I know Lucy, she will get you to come. No one can influence you like her. You and Lucy. Though I wanted it to happen, I never really thought it would. I figure you had your head up your own arse so far, it was a lost cause. I cannot wrap my head around what possibly goes on behind your closed doors. 

Molly and Mrs. Hudson enter together, chatting amiably. As Molly slips off her coat, she reveals a strapless cocktail dress that enhances her bosoms. I wonder if it is for you or the newly single Greg. Either way, she has wasted her time. 

On cue, Lucy walks through the door with you hot on her heels. You cast a stoney gaze across the room - like you’ve been dragged to a funeral. For a moment, I wish I had told Lucy to come alone. Yet, I’m not sure you’d allow her to come alone knowing that Greg would be here. 

I see Greg stop in his tracks and finish his drink in one swallow. He looks pained to see Lucy. I pray that you and Lucy contain yourselves tonight. Actually, it’s not Lucy I’m worried about.

Molly hangs back by your side. I see that you are still the prize in her eye.

“Excuse me,” I say to Mary. “I’m going to say hello.”

“John, everything looks so lovely!” Mrs. Hudson gasps as I enter the circle.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. You ladies look quite breath-taking,” I say.

Molly turns red and giggles. 

“Thank you, John. Mary is positively beaming. You’ve done a wonderful job.” Lucy gives me a small hug. 

“It’s all her mum, really. This was her idea,” I shrug.

“Ah yes, a mother’s love,” you sigh.

Both Lucy and I shoot you a glare.

“It’s very lovely,” you force a grin.

“Stop that. You’ll scare the others,” I suggest.

“I told him to not use the creepy smile,” Lucy says.

“Sherlock,” Molly’s voice shakes. “Would you like to get a drink?”

“Why not?” You raise an eyebrow. “Would you like something?” You settle your gaze on Lucy.

“Just a red wine, please,” Lucy nods. I can see she wants you to know that she appreciates the offer but cannot show too much.

You head for the bar with Molly trailing behind you.

“How does he seem tonight?” I ask. 

“Sherlock? Fine, antisocial as usual.” She watches you walk away.

“And things?” 

“You mean between us?” she asks. “Strange and comfortable at the same time.” Her cheeks pink slightly. “It’s very hard to explain. I try not to think about it too much.”

“With Sherlock, it’s probably best. Try to be patient. I know he’s never been here before,” I smile. I see Greg circling us like a shark. “Greg has no idea, does he?”

Panic hits her yes. “No, not yet. I know he will find out if this continues, but I didn’t want to complicate their working relationship right away. I would have ended it anyway…”

“Have you spoken to him since then?” I ask.

“No. He’s emailed and sent texts, but I haven’t answered them. I didn’t want to give him false hope. He’s watching us, isn’t he?” She whispers.

“He’s chatting with Mary now,” I report. 

“How are wedding plans going?” Mrs. Hudson enters the conversation.

Lucy looks relieved to have a distraction from thinking about Greg. 

“They are coming along. I think we are at the final touches and fittings - for her. Not me. You have to ask her since she’s really the one in charge,” I glance over to Mary, blissfully ignorant to the tension swirling in the room. 

You return solo with two glasses of wine. Molly is nowhere to be seen. 

“Here,” you offer a glass to Lucy with your eyes on Greg. “I see he came after all. Some men don’t know when to give up.”

“And some don’t know when to shut up,” I muse. 

You look to me with surprise.

“Don’t cause a scene, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson clucks.

“We talked about this,” Lucy says in a low voice. 

“I know,” you reply defensively.

“Was that before or after you broke my table?” Mrs. Hudson teases.

Lucy blushes with a small grin. Your lip curls into a sly smirk. 

Not only are you and Lucy intimate, but experimental too.

I think about all the meals I ate there. All the cases we solved together. I cannot wrap my mind around the concept of you being carnal anywhere, let alone a dining room table, 

“I’m going to say hello to Mary.” Lucy clears her throat as she leaves.

“Mrs. Hudson, this is not being discreet, airing laundry like this.” You have just scolded your landlady.

“Neither is breaking a sturdy table,” she fires back.

“Can I introduce you to Mary’s mother, Mrs. Hudson?” I offer my arm. 

“Please do!” Her face brightens immediately.

“There you are!” Molly calls with a glass of champagne. “I turned around and you were gone.”

“Precisely,” you mutter.

I leave you to Molly, which I feel is fitting. Mrs. Hudson and I join Mary’s mum by the buffet. 

I spend most of my time keeping tabs on all the players - you, Lucy and Greg. You hover around Lucy when you can. Even if you were not in some kind of relationship, you would gravitate to her since she tolerates you best. Smiling, I think of all the times you scoffed at my suspicions. You try to watch her with detached interest - like you would Molly or Mrs. Hudson. I am not sure anyone else can see it, but I detect the warmth behind your gaze. 

Meanwhile, Greg has lost his courage. He sits at a table with Molly and some scattered acquaintances. Lucy surrounds herself with people at all times, probably to stave off a confrontation. 

Just as I relax, I see you standing by the bar - rigid as a corpse. Your eyes have iced over and it looks like you might shatter the glass with your grip. I follow your eyes to see Lucy and Greg talking. 

He leans forward to hear her over the music, clearly accustomed to being close. She shifts her weight and stares at his mouth or neck. Every so often, her eyes venture to his. She’s uncomfortable but trying very hard to contain it with small gestures like touching his arm or offering a tepid smile. 

You, on the other hand, look as if you might burst with jealousy. Another human emotion. I would be more amused if this was not a party for the wedding. If you should blow, the fallout would be immeasurable. 

I try to imagine what you must be seeing in their body language. Will your great power of deduction be clouded by passion?

I see Mary’s mum approach you. She is chatting amiably but you have not acknowledged her. This has disaster all over it. You can be surly on the best of days and now is not a great moment. I only hope to get there in time.

“I’m not sure that I care,” I hear you say as I reach you.

Her eyes are wide as saucers. “I’m…I’m…sorry?” She sputters. “But you are the best man.”

“That’s debatable,” I intercede.

Your eyes float to Greg and Lucy again. 

“Did you not have any other friends, John?” she scoffs.

“I do,” I protest. There is no way I can convince her that you are not vile. 

“That inspector is nice,” she says.

Your head whips around in her direction. “What?”

“Let’s refill your glass, Mrs. Mortsan.” I take her arm to lead her away. “Get a hold of yourself, Sherlock,” I hiss to you.

As we pass Lucy and Greg, I overhear her say, “I wish the best for you too.” 

That is followed by a sincere embrace. Over my shoulder, I see you turn whiter than usual before you **stalk away.**

***  *  *  *  ***

**Sherlock**

Truly, I am delighted for John. Perhaps a few weeks ago, I did not quite understand his desire to marry. I have not been converted to the concept, but I can identify with the desire to keep a person at your side for an extended time. We are still learning about one other, but I do feel an attachment. On a night like tonight, I feel out of my depth. While there is a rush of the unknown, I do not like to surrender control.

You seamlessly slip between partygoers. I feel them look past you to me - the one who shot you. You are miracle standing before them and I am the grim reaper. I circulate nearby in hopes of picking up bits of conversation. I listen for accusations or a conciliatory tone, but find neither.

When you catch my eye, you send just the hint of a grin. I want to find a closet or dark hallway to show my appreciation for such a small gesture. 

I feel my jaw tighten as soon as I see Lestrade. Of course he is looking for you. He sends me a small friendly wave that turns my stomach. As soon as he sees you, his back straighten and pupils dilate. I knew he wouldn’t give up easily. As much as I wish I could prove to him that you are with me, I cannot do anything but stand nearby. I clasp my hands behind my back and try to stand close. I loathe these parties. All the false sincerity and gossip turn my stomach. Especially when I might be at the center of that gossip.

Upon on our arrival, the differences in you and me are apparent. You find it easy to flit from trivial conversation and guest. There are times, I can see the boredom in your eyes. Yet, you smile sweetly and laugh politely. You deliver witty quips and delight your partner in conversation. It’s quite brilliant to witness. I feel the hair rise on the back of my neck and my heart accelerate. You are fetching in that dress. I forgot to tell you how lovely you look with your hair pulled up. I anticipate pressing my lips against the back of your neck as I remove that dress.

Molly does a poor job of looking nonchalant as she finds ways to cross my path. She asks how you are recuperating - as if she cares. She talks about the weather and her hopes that spring will come soon. When she runs out of mindless drivel, she turns to discussing work. I excuse myself to look after where John has gone.

Then I see it: You and Lestrade talking close. If I interrupt, he will know for certain. Granted, he’ll find out sooner or later. John would never forgive me if I were the cause any kind of scene at Mary’s party. However, I cannot allow Lestrade to sweep you away again. 

You smile warmly into his face. Your cheeks are flushed but I cannot see your eyes. He leans close to you, nostrils flaring. The smile indicates that he likes what he hears. 

As you lay your hand affectionately on his arm, my grip tightens on the glass in my hand. He inches closer, licking his lips. His eyes slide all over you - just like his dry hands did just weeks ago.

Of course, Lestrade can offer you more than I can. He can say the right thing and give the proper amount of flowers. You could have safe missionary intercourse with him. He wouldn’t forget to ring and will take you to fancy restaurants. Your mother and friends love him as much as they loathe me. I do not make things easy; and I do not canoodle. 

Before the scene gets worse, I have to decide if I should interrupt. I’m sure that I can feign a lighthearted conversation. Granted, I would love to casually drop the details about our morning session. 

Out of the corner of my eye, Mary’s mother appears in a hideous floral nightmare. Her perfume poorly masks the fact that she has an incontinence problem. Such a shame for a woman of her age. I continue to watch you and Lestrade in hopes that she will not open her mouth.

“Lovely gathering, isn’t it?” she asks. 

I offer a terse nod.

“Did you have any of the hors d’oeuvres?” 

“I don’t eat much,” I mutter. 

You laugh at something he says. I feel the bile rise in my throat. 

Mrs. Morstan will not give up. ”Have you considered a stag party?”

I glance over quickly. “No.”

“You really should get on it. I read that people are doing theme parties. What kind of party would John like?”

My patience has snapped. “I’m not sure that I care.”

“I’m…I’m…sorry,” she gasps. “But you are the best man.”

John appears. “That’s debatable.”

I look past John to see Greg’s hand on your back.

“Do you not have any other friends?” Her voice is icy. “That handsome inspector is nice.”

I shoot her a glare. “What?”

John sees that I am at my limit. He takes her arm. “Let’s refill your glass, Mrs. Morstan.” He glowers over his shoulder. “Get a hold of yourself, Sherlock.”

If Mary was getting cozy with a former fiance, I guarantee that John would be a tad testy. 

I turn my eyes back in time to see Greg gather you in his arms to hold you tight. Numb, that is the sensation that overtakes me. The air in the room becomes hot and suffocating like someone has turned on a furnace. I need air. I need space. 

I search for the first hallway that will take me away from what I just witnessed. Is my mind playing tricks on me? What did I really see?

Genuine warmth. Smiles. Touching. 

I lean against the wall to gather my thoughts. I blame myself for starting this all in the first place. Had I not kissed you, it would have never led to this. You and Lestrade would still be together; and I would be myself. Mycroft is correct - caring is never an advantage. Once I let Ms. Adler seep in and it nearly caused an international incident. Somehow, this feels more severe. This was my heart. I allowed it to rule my actions. Perhaps I am just a momentary distraction for cold feet. Or worse yet, Lestrade is a better option. 

My eyes sting and my throat burns. I have to leave this party - I know that for certain. Tomorrow, I will make my apologies to John. 

I close my eyes to take a few breaths.

“Sherlock?” 

My eyes spring open to see you peering up at me. You place one hand on my arm.

“Are you all right?” You ask.

Many emotions rise to the surface. Anger and betrayal are the first two that present themselves. It’s not all your fault - I betrayed my true self. John once called me a machine and that is how I should stay.

“Say anything, you’re making me nervous.” You move closer.

“How is Lestrade?” I ask coldly.

“He seems all right for the time being.” Your face brightens to the realization of my tone. “What do you think happened?”

“It looked cozy.” I look at the opposite wall.

“Doesn’t matter what it looked like because it wasn’t that - at all. He’s finally accepted that it’s over. He said he knew the instant he saw me that something had changed and I looked happy.” You force yourself into my gaze.

I relent. “You were not telling him you want to be with him?”

“No!” Your voice is so emphatic; I’m inclined to believe you. “Sherlock, I would not drag you into this if I were not certain. I know you think most women are fickle. You should know by now, I am not most women.”

I blink as a wave of relief crashes around me. “You are certain?”

“About us? It depends on the day, and sometimes the moment…really,” you grin.

Chuckling softly, I cover your hand with mine. I feel as though I’m waking from a stupor. My mind slowly comes back into focus.

“I’m not sure what came over me.” I blink a few more times. 

“Jealousy plays awful mind tricks,” you whisper. 

I nod. “You don’t want to be with him?”

“No.” You touch my cheek.

“You want to be with me?” I hate that doubt still bites at me. I sound desperate but I need to make things clear.

“Yes, I do,” you say.

I don’t care if anyone sees us, I lean down and kiss you. Later, I will need to be alone to process all that happened. Right now, I need to feel you want me. With your lips moving in time with mine, I believe your words. Never have I desired to walk arm in arm with anyone. At this moment, I wish that we could re-enter the party together. As your arms wrap around me, I take your face in my hands just longing to take this further. A noise, like a gasp, pulls me away. 

My head turns in the direction, but no one is there. “Did you hear something?”

You shake your head. “No, but I suppose we should stop before someone does happen upon us.”

I look once more down the hallway. It was definitely female whoever it was. Clearly not Mrs. Morstan as I’d smell her arrival. 

Reluctantly, I move away. “You are right. I need to make amends, I fear.”

“What did you do?” You sound like a mother.

“I may have offended Mary’s mum earlier,” I say.

“You didn’t tell her that she smelled like urine?” You cross your arms in front of you.

“No, but you could smell it too?” I grin.

“Yes, it was quite distracting. She should have gone with a citrus perfume instead of floral,” you say. 

Ah, you are learning.

“No, I was distracted while you were talking with Lestrade. I just wanted her to shut up.” I attempt to defend myself. 

“Classic Sherlock,” you cluck. You button my jacket and smooth the lapels. “What you are going to do is go over to her and apologise. Say you have a terrible headache but I gave you an aspirin and you feel loads better.”

“Do I have to?” I raise an eyebrow.

“If you want John to ever speak to you again, yes,” you state. “Unless you want John to make Greg his best man and then I have to dance with him at the wedding.”

“That’s cruel,” I say. You, on the other hand, are smiling. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

“And try to make it believable.”

I return to the fun and frivolity of the party. Mary is shooting daggers with her eyes. Clearly, her mum has tattled on me. 

“Go on,” you urge. 

I know neither you nor John will ever let me live this down until I apologise. 

With my sincerest voice, I offer myself on the sacrificial slab to Mrs. Morstan. John looks to you somehow knowing you orchestrated this. After another award winning turn at acting, Mrs. Morstan is giddy and delighted as a school girl. Mary has been placated, for the moment. 

John pulls me aside. “Thank you - even if Lucy was behind it.”

“I knew I needed to make amends. She came up with the means,” I shrug.

“And things are better?”

“Things are fine indeed,” I nod. 

Oddly enough, Molly has stopped orbiting me and moved onto Lestrade. Suddenly, the night seems to be turning around. 

“I’m tired,” you announce to John and me. “I think I might take Mrs. Hudson home too.”

“I’ll leave with you,” I offer. “I should leave while I’m on everyone’s good side.”

John laughs, but nods in agreement. “It’s true.”

“All right. Let me say goodnight to Mary, and we’ll meet you by the door.” I feel your smile melt away the last bit of doubt and fear that clung inside of me. 

John pats my shoulder. “Go home.” As if he is giving me permission to allow these emotions in.

As I make my way to the door, I pass Lestrade and Molly. I pause to offer my hand. “Good evening, Inspector.”

“Right,” he nods sullenly. “It was a good party though. John looks happy.”

I turn my head to see John place a kiss on Mary’s cheek. “He is happy.”

Molly is staring at me like I’ve grown horns. “Lucky him.”

“Goodnight Molly. I hope someone is seeing you home,” I glance to Lestrade. 

“Are you heading there now?” she asks. 

“I have the ladies of the house to see home.” I nod to where you and Mrs. Hudson stand.

Molly’s eyes darken. “I see. Goodnight.”

She seems more disappointed than usual. I feel both sets of eyes burn into my back as I join you at the door. 

You raise an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

“Couldn’t be better.” I suppress a smile.

***  *  *  *  ***

**Lucy**

I watch the street lights distort as rain pelts the windows of my room. We didn’t have sex, or intercourse as you refer to it. There was no fucking or shagging. Tonight I’m pretty sure we made love for the first time. 

You led me to my bedroom and undressed me leisurely. You kissed me as if savouring every moment. Your eyes stayed on my face while we moved together slowly, enjoying every second of the connection. You didn’t cry out in passion, but simply whispered my name.

After, we kissed and were reluctant to part. I had not felt that connected to another person like that in…I could not remember. 

Usually after sex, we toss some clothes on - knickers and shorts, maybe a t-shirt for me - before we sleep for the night. Tonight, your skin presses along the length of mine. Your arm wraps around my midsection while you sleep on my shoulder. Only a sheet covers us from the chilly flat air, our bodies keeping one another warm. Somehow the rain is a perfect ending.

I reflect on your insecurity earlier. I can’t believe you thought I wanted to be with Greg. Yes, you are impossible most times. And while Greg is better boyfriend material, he doesn’t make me feel like you do with just a slight smile. Even the smallest of gestures, like closing your hand around mine in the taxi home tonight, make it all seem worthwhile. 

From the other room, I hear a buzz and moan. A second later, I hear it again. It’s your mobile and it’s Irene. I have not given her much thought lately. It’s been months since you’ve mentioned her. However, she’s now sent you three messages. The contentment I was feeling slips away being replaced with anxiety. What could be so bloody important?

I managed to accomplish what she could not - I conjured emotion from you. It happened without my trying. Now I wonder if I’ve just opened the door for anyone else to conjure whatever they want. 

In an instance, I know how you must have felt tonight watching me talk with Greg. I never imagined that you, the great Sherlock Holmes, could fall into such jealousy. But here I am with you as my blanket feeling distressed about a text message.

You still sleep wrapped around me, oblivious to the phone. Your heavy breathing tickles my neck. I wonder if you’ve noticed that you sleep much better by my side. 

Another moan. She is tenacious. I hold you closer and you let out a contented sigh. Tomorrow morning, you’ll see those messages but for tonight, you are here. 

How long will you stay?


	26. The black brings out the blue in your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade and Mum are not pleased

**Lucy**

We have no food. The cupboards have only condiments -some peanut butter, oil, and vinegar. The crisps are stale as are the box of biscuits I found buried in the back. The refrigerator is no better. There is some old take away, jam, expired eggs and curry sauce. The milk, thanks to my Christmas present, is fresh and the only thing we have.

“We have absolutely no food,” I call to you.

You lean back in your desk chair. “We’ve been otherwise occupied.” 

“Shagging incessantly will not sustain us,” I say.

“Maybe not you,” you smirk. 

“I will need fuel to keep up with your teenage libido.” 

“All this naughty talk and you’ll arouse me.” You shoot me a heated smiled before turning back to the laptop. 

That laptop is mine, consequently. Yours sits not more than six inches from you. 

“Why aren’t you using yours?” I ask.

“Yours was closer.” You shrug.

I look over your shoulder and see several tabs open. One of those being my email. There is nothing that you shouldn’t see. I long deleted the emails from Greg. It is more the principal. 

“Don’t you know the meaning of privacy?” I place my hands on my hips. “And respecting that?”

“I would have thought privacy was out the window once I placed my face in your vagina.” You glance up with that smirk. Sometimes, it turns me on. Now, I want to slap it from your face. 

I snatch my computer away from you. “Use your own bloody computer.”

“Where are you going?” you ask as I storm away.

“To get dressed for the market. One of us needs to eat,” I call as I slam the door. 

I toss my laptop on my bed. Honestly, I don’t care that you were using it. It’s not like I’m not used to you just helping yourself to whatever you like. What pisses me off is that it has been two days since Irene sent you those messages. You have not mentioned it once. Not the following morning over coffee. Not later that evening while you sat in your chair deep in concentration. I try not to be offended that you have barely spoken at all since the party. The Sherlock that took me home and made love to me has buried himself deep inside you. I wonder if I’ll see him again and if Irene’s messages have made him disappear. 

I pull some clothes from my dresser. Standing in the middle of my bedroom, I’m surrounded by your roses. Some are still blooming while others hang and drop their petals on my floor. They must have cost you a fortune. I smile when I think about you ordering them from a poor unsuspecting shop owner. 

Am I being silly or smart for worrying so much about Irene? I really have no idea what she meant to you - if anything. 

“I’m off,” I say as I grab my handbag from my chair. 

You rise from the desk and hand me some money. “Don’t forget biscuits.”

“I don’t need this,” I say.

You cock your head. “You do. You haven’t worked in months.”

“I can’t keep living on your charity.”

You smile. “It’s not charity. I need to keep your energy up for my nefarious purposes. Call it an investment.”

Impulsively, you lean forward and plant a simple kiss on my lips. Yes, we’ve have sex in various rooms, positions and times of day. However, an act of simple affection catches me off guard. Without batting an eye, you return to your work. 

***  *  *  *  *  ***

**Sherlock**

We walk up the creaky stairs and the stench of death grows stronger. John steadies himself against the banister.

“You are a doctor, correct?” I look back.

“Yes, but I never enjoy the smell of death,” he answers in a strained voice. 

With my foot, I nudge the flat door open wide enough to pass through. A few detectives mull around as they take evidence. Lestrade is discussion with Donovan when we walk into the parlour. Upon my first scan of the scene, I see an old man and woman on the floor, each in a pool of old blood. They’ve been dead a few days, at least. A gun is in his hand stretched across his stomach. Clearly, he shot her then himself. 

I look up at Lestrade. “Afternoon.”

“Thanks for coming so quickly.” He hands me some latex gloves. 

“I’m not sure why I was called, it looks like a simple domestic dispute,” I say. “How long have they been dead, John?”

“I’d say by colour and smell alone, at least three days.” He winces as he crouches a little closer.

“It would appear that it is a simple case except we’ve talked with the neighbors. They never quarreled,” Lestrade says.

“You don’t know what happens behind closed doors,” I offer with a small self-satisfied smirk. Last night, it was against that closed door. 

Lestrade narrows his eyes at me. “I would normally agree, but the man holding the gun is blind the neighbors say. He might be able to shoot himself but his wife?”

“Do they live alone?” I ask.

“No, their son lives with them and has not been seen in days.” Lestrade is staring at me closely. 

“This is getting a bit more interesting,” I mutter. I grab the gloves from Lestrade.

I walk around the flat to ascertain position of a gun man. A quick search of fingernails indicate there was no struggle. The killer had the element of surprise on his or her side. Clearly the old woman was first. The killer knew the old man was blind. This was not a random break in. The flat remains untouched, yet the son’s room has been turned upside down. 

Despite the intrigue of the case, I cannot stop yawning. The physical exertion of last night has left me feeling a bit drained. 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. Are we keeping you up?” Lestrade bites.

“I had a rather late night,” I smirk. 

I hear Lestrade growl, “You bastard!” right before I feel his fist make contact with my left cheek. I stagger back. 

John steadies me and readies himself to run interference for another blow.

“You couldn’t keep your bloody hands off!” Lestrade rages.

I shake my head and clench my fists, ready to go if he comes at me again.

“I’m not sure what you are referring to,” I say calmly.

“Don’t be coy. I saw you hovering around her at the party. I thought you were just following her around like a lovesick puppy. I had no idea that the feelings were mutual.” He drops his hands.

I pretend to not know what he’s talking about. 

“Molly saw you and Lucy,” Lestrade says.

The gasp I heard while we kissed. I thought it sounded familiar.

“I should have known at the hospital. My gut was telling me something was off between you two.”

“Oi,” Donovan calls. “This is still a crime scene.”

Lestrade runs both hands over his head in exasperation. I touch my cheek to feel wetness.

“Shall we get back to work?” John looks around the room at everyone gawking.

“I just can’t believe she chose you over me,” Lestrade spits.

I strip off my gloves and toss them at his feet. “Solve this yourself then.”

Without a glance back, I descend the stairs two at time. I hear John make apologies and follow behind me. I look frantically for a taxi. I decide to walk in quick yet long strides. John has to run to catch me.

“Wait!” He grabs my arm. “What was that?”

“He’ll be calling me in a few days despite his feelings,” I bark.

“He does have a point. They were engaged.” John’s face is bright red from running.

I scowl. “I certainly did not plan for anything to occur between Lucy and me. I didn’t set out to steal her. It happened and that is all. Am I to blame that he can’t obviously keep a woman satisfied?”

“It’s very good you didn’t say that to him. You’d have a matching black eye,” John says. 

I frown. “No, because he wouldn’t have the element of surprise on his side.”

“All you had to do was apologise.” He has stopped panting.

“I’m not sorry.” I stop short. “I didn’t want her to be with him. I just didn’t know that I wanted to be with her. Now I do, so I’m not sorry.”

“You don’t feel the tiniest bit bad for him?” John asks. ”He loved her, and now she’s with someone he considered a friend.”

I scratch my head. I don’t know how I would handle the same situation. 

“When you put it like that, yes. I do pity his situation,” I nod.

“All you have to do is tell him that, but maybe put it a little better,” he suggests.

“So lie?” 

“If you need to, yes.”

Sighing, I roll my eyes. 

“I know you enjoy working with Lestrade,” John says. “Because he lets you get away with murder. However, if you don’t make nice…”

I know where he is going with this. Last thing I want to do is grovel to Lestrade. Especially after he insulted me. Why wouldn’t you prefer me? I filled our flat with roses. I never heard you call out while fornicating with him. 

“Fine. Not today. I’ll give him a few days to see that he needs me,” I turn my collar up and continue on my way. 

“What will you tell Lucy?” He asks.

“I wasn’t planning on telling her.”

“Have you seen your face?” He chuckles.

I stop to look in a store front window. Lestrade has left his mark with a cut and bruise forming under my left eye. Surely, you will notice. Maybe I can deflect with flowers. That is the reason men give women floral arrangements. However, our flat is filled with decaying roses. You would surely see through that ruse. 

“I guess I’ll have no choice.” I tenderly touch the raised area under my eye. 

“How will she react?”

“I hope this will get me a night of sympathy sex, but there’s a full moon and her menstrual cycle is this week. The probability of irrational behavior is high,” I say. 

John shudders. 

“What?” I look over.

“I’m sorry. The thought of you being intimate with anything is still very foreign to me,” he says.

I grin. “It appears I’m quite good at it. I’ve taken to it like fish to water.”

“That’s a very disturbing analogy Sherlock.”

*  *  *  *  *

** Lucy **

I hear bickering all the way up the stairs. My quiet afternoon of fruitless job searching and on-line browsing has come to an end. 

“I told you that was unnecessary detour. I didn’t trust that driver,” you say pushing through the door.

“I know you had a bad experience with a cabbie,” John says.

You whirl around on him. “One? Try three.”

John snaps his mouth closed.

It’s like I’m not even here. I can just watch you both bicker like a fly on the wall.

Of course it is John who acknowledges my existence. 

“Lucy, how are you?” He asks.

“I’m fine. You’ve spent the afternoon with Sherlock so I can only guess how you are.” I smirk.

You shoot me a hurt look. That’s when I see the cut under your left eye. The area around it is swollen and dark red.

“What happened?” I leap to my feet. “The cabbie?”

“Uh, no,” you say.

I look to John who clearly knows. “Okay, so who is going to tell me?”

You and John stare at one another.

“I’m not going to do it.” He holds his hands up.

You remove your coat. “The inspector and I had a disagreement.”

“Greg?” I frown. Even when I ended things, I never saw him get angry.

“He caught me by surprise,” you accuse.

“Over a case?” By your face, I know immediately I am being naive. “Over me…” 

We are all quiet for a moment with all eyes on me. 

“How did he find out?” I ask. “We haven’t left this flat.”

“Molly saw us at John’s party,” you say. 

John clears his throat.

“And I may have said something.” You sit in your chair.

I blink. “May? Like what? I’m shagging your ex.”

You chuckle. “I’d never be that obvious.” You scratch your ear. “I just mentioned I had a late night.”

John clears his throat again.

“With a slight smile,” you utter. “I was just thinking of you.”

“And just that set him off?” I ask.

You shrug innocently, yet I suspect differently.

“I don’t think the closed doors comment helped things,” John offers.

“Sherlock,” I sigh. “You were tossing it in his face. Why would you do that?”

“I wasn’t attempting to throw it in his face. If Molly had never seen us, it would have sailed right over his head,” you explain. 

“What happened after he hit you?” I ask.

“He said some hurtful things,” you sniff. “Then I left. Let him sort out his murder on his own. He’ll be calling by the end of the day.”

“You wanted him to know, didn’t you?” I hover over you. 

You don’t look at me. “No.”

“Holmes, I’m not stupid.”

You roll your eyes, then look up at me. “Maybe.”

“You bloody well deserve that black eye, then,” I say.

You smirk. “Perhaps.”

I shake my head. “John, I don’t think he regrets it at all.”

“He rarely regrets much,” John says. “He did say he would apologise for being so insensitive.”

“That’s a start.”

“Excuse me, I’m the injured party. My face hurts,” you whine. “I’m wounded.”

“Such a baby.” I leave to get the first aid kit from the bathroom.

When I return, I see John gazing at the empty space in the dining room with a confused and disturbed expression on his face. I forgot that he knew about that. 

“Okay, look up.” I stand in front of you.

“I’m fine,” you pout. 

“It will look great if it gets infected,” I say.

Begrudgingly, you look up and part your knees so I can get closer. I dab the cotton ball with Betadine. Your left eye crinkles against the sting of the medicine. 

“Have you learned your lesson about talking out of turn?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Now he knows there is no hope of a reconciliation,” you say. 

“Yes, but remember that we didn’t want your working relationship compromised.”

“It will pass. Clearly, he discovered the truth without either of us telling him.” You sit up.

“And you helped confirm it but hinting that we were having sex.”

“It sounds so lascivious when you put it like that.” Your hands rest on my thighs. 

We stare at one another for a moment - forgetting that John is here. 

“I think you’ll survive,” I clear my throat. “John, would you like a cuppa?”

“I should get home.” He stands. “Mary will be cooking dinner.”

His cheeks are flushed, embarrassed for witnessing a private moment.

You snort. “If you call that cooking.”

“Will you stop?” I scold. “Are you sure?”

John rubs his neck. “Maybe one before I go. It’s rather chilly out there.”

“I’ll get it,” you offer. “Lucy leaves the bag to steep too long.”

I shrug. “I like my tea my strong.”

John wanders over to the empty space in the dining room. “It’s a shame we can’t all sit around the table.”

You smile. “Trust me, you wouldn’t want to sit in your spot now.”

*  *  *  *  *  *

**Lucy**

“Am I to do your wash from now on?” I set down the laundry basket. “Somehow, this load had more of your things.”

You don’t even look up from your newspaper. You’ve been silent all morning. While you and Greg have not made up, he has a colleague reach out for your help. To me, it was an easy out for you. You still should apologise.

I plop the basket at your feet. The thud draws you out of your trance. 

“Yes?”

“Your laundry,” I say simply as I collect the five items that are actually mine from the top. 

You eye the tumble of clothes then my nicely folded items in my arms. “No folding service?”

“Perhaps if you asked instead of assuming I would just do it,” I chirp.

“I know that you have more time on your hands, unlike me.” Your eyes return to the paper.

“So it is my job to keep house?” I know that you have being paying for almost everything. It stings because I have been submitting resumes and going on as many interviews as possible.

You sigh. “All I was suggesting is that you do in fact have more time to do household chores.”

Despite your being correct, I feel my temper rise to my cheeks.

“And you, consequently,” I snap.

You grin that self-serving grin that always make me want to fly in an irrational rage. “That is just a bonus of your unemployment.”

“You do realise that I can easily lock my door and knees?” 

“You wouldn’t hold out for long.” You stand. You’re about to try to prove me wrong.

“I think you deduce wrongly, Holmes.” I raise an eyebrow and the stakes.

Just then, my mobile rings.

“Ah, saved by the bell.” You wink and sit back in your chair.

I roll my eyes and see it is my mum. From the frying pan to the fire. Ugh, what does she want? 

“Hello,” I affect my cheeriest phone voice.

As it would appear, mum is around the corner wants to get lunch. I offer to meet her in front of Speedy’s but no - she is at the front door now. I rush to get dressed into something a little more than some running shorts and oversized jumper. You watch as I tear around the flat trying to get ready while I toss your laundry in my room for the time being. I do a quick check around my bed for any of your discarded clothes. No matter, she will never suspect they are yours.

“Well hello Sherlock,” I hear my mothers icy voice. 

My jaw clenches. You are feeling playful today but one wrong word from her, and I can see you going on the attack.

“Mrs. Adams, don’t you look lovely,” you say.

I emerge brushing my hair. “Mum. I would have been right down.”

“And miss the chance for such hospitable treatment from Mr. Holmes?” Her voice hasn’t exactly warmed. “What happened to your face?”

You touch the cut on your cheek. “A case got a little out of control,” you answer cryptically. 

“Clearly, you cavort with dangerous types.” Disapproval drips from her voice. 

Your jaw clenches.

“Let me get my shoes and purse,” I say.

“The place looks surprisingly nice. But I guess you have plenty of time for that,” she clucks.

We exchange a look.

I would rather work in a chip van than be spending any time with Mum right now.

“How are you still affording this place, Lucy?” She asks.

“Savings,” I lie.

“Actually Mrs. Adams, I have been assisting her.” You stand beside me.

Mum ignores that completely. “If you moved home, you could save money if you get a job.”

“When I get a job.” I correct her.

“Do you know who I had lunch with yesterday?” She changes the subject.

I swear there are multiple personalities inside her. I grab my purse. “Who?”

“Greg,” she chirps. 

“Greg?” Panic shoots through me.

“Yes, the young man were going to marry,” she offers snidely.

“Why?” I ask.

“It all happened so fast that I never got a chance to say goodbye.”

“Why would you need to say goodbye?” I demand.

This is getting weirder and weirder.

“And how is the good inspector?” You intercede before I begin shrieking.

She looks at you oddly. “Don’t you know? Don’t you work with him?”

She is not giving you an inch.

“Not every day, Mrs. Adams,” you simply say.

“It was such a nice lunch,” she goes on to say. 

Once again, we exchange heavy gazes. Has Greg spilled our beans? Is that the reason for this visit?

“I’m glad you got it out of your system, Mother,” I say dryly. 

“I don’t suppose there is any chance, is there Lucy?” She pleads.

“For what? No, it’s over. I wasn’t in love with him,” I sigh. “Are we having lunch or did you just come over to irritate me?”

“He was just so nice. I hope you don’t go back to the losers. I don’t think I can live through that again,” she whines. 

“You won’t have to, Mrs. Adams.” You step forward and slip your arm around my shoulder. 

Her mouth falls open. 

“I assure you that Lucy will not be bringing any losers into this flat. I have her best interest at the center of my core.” Your fingers grip around my shoulder possessively. There is no way that she can misunderstand your implication.

With her eyes are wide as saucers, she looks to me. “What does he mean, Lucy?”

I might as well delve into the deep end with you. I wrap my arm around your waist and feel you stand a little taller. 

“You were going to learn eventually,” I say.

“I hope this is just a very sick joke,” she warns. Her red face deepens to a purple.

“No Mother, it is not.” With your arm around me, I suddenly feel invincible against her evil forces. 

She huffs and puffs, unable to form words. “But Greg….”

“I introduced them, yes,” you say. 

“Then you pulled them apart!” she yells.

“No. Greg and I were not right for each other, it’s that simple!” I growl.

She lets out an ugly laugh. “And you think you and this freak are?”

“If you are going to insult him in our home, you can leave. You know where the door is.” I point. 

You pull me closer. I can feel your heart racing keeping pace with mine. 

“I’m sorry, but I’m your mother and I think I know what is best.” She steps forward. 

I have no idea what she thinks she is going to do. Pry me from your arms like some kind of Shakespearean tragedy? 

“I’m not looking for your blessing. I’m just informing you. And don’t bother running to Greg, he already knows,” I say. 

She is at a loss. I can practically see her head detach and spin like a top as only sounds fall from her mouth. We’ve done something that I could never manage to accomplish on my own. We’re rendered her speechless. 

Without another word, she slams out of the flat. Her stomping shakes the walls. 

I want to cry, but I won’t in front of you. This was the biggest fight I’ve had with my mum since I was 17. 

You place your hands on my shoulders to turn me to you. “Are you all right?”

There is real concern in your eyes. 

I sigh. “Yeah. I guess this means lunch is off.”

“We can visit the chip van,” you offer.

“How about instead that we use the energy left in the room and have dirty angry sex….just to piss off my mum?” I suggest. 

“If only we had a video camera,” you grin before kissing me. 


	27. The bitch is back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return of Irene Adler

**Lucy**

What a glorious day! The sun is shining and warm. Enough so, that I sling my jacket over my arm as I walk home from my latest interview. For once, it is a very promising lead. A large company with many locations in England and America. With expansion, they are hiring many new people in marketing. Perhaps my time at University will be useful for more than running reports. 

I pick up a bottle of wine on the walk home. It feels like a celebration night. Perhaps, we will go out for dinner. Maybe I can squeeze into one of my better dresses and we can have a proper date. Since standing up against my mother a few days ago, you’ve been very attentive and almost affectionate at times. 

I’m halfway up the stairs when I freeze. There is a female voice coming from our flat. I hold my breath. It is unmistakably Irene Adler’s smooth voice. My heart races out of control as the staircase spins around me. What is she doing here?

I pause outside the door and strain to hear the conversation.

“Your flatmate is home,” I hear her coo.

Bitch. Of course she’d hear me. I gather myself for a moment. Does she know about us? How should I be? I want to run in there screaming my head off for her to get away from you, but that would be irrational and not like me. 

With a cleansing breath, I open the door and steel myself for what I might see. 

Irene is perched in your chair while you sit in mine. I spy two teacups on the chair beside her. You’ve made her tea.

“I’m sorry, did I interrupt?” I ask crisply. 

Your head turns upon hearing my tone. “Ms. Adler was just leaving.”

She grins like a cat that just swallowed a canary. I wish I knew that she has not. 

“Ah yes, I have a dinner engagement. Art gallery,” she stands to show her svelte silhouette in a perfect white dress to us. She turns to you. “You should come, Sherlock. Quite a breathtaking exhibit.”

“Thank you, but no.” Your eyes catch mine. “I have other arrangements.”

She looks from me to you. “But of course. I thank you for your time, Sherlock. Your assistance in this matter puts my mind at ease. I hope that it will beneficial to the both of us.”

I move to put the wine in the kitchen and pour myself a large glass. 

At the door, she turns to face you. “You will let me know if you find anything?”

“Certainly. Good evening,” you nod.

“Good night, Sherlock,” she murmurs seductively.

I just about finish the glass when I pour another. My skin steams. Her spicy perfume hangs like fog in the flat. I’ll need to open a window and burn a candle just to exorcise the smell. 

I had almost forgotten the text messages from a few weeks ago. Have you been in contact with her all along? Did you ignore her and she just turn up?

You knew I would be home at some point, so there is no possible way anything lascivious was planned on your part. However, relationships and its rules are new to you. I’m not sure what to feel since you never dated her. I know her intentions are far from innocent. Do you?

I fill my glass to the rim and go to the parlor. You sit in your chair now and stare into space with your hands folded. A switch has flipped and old Sherlock is back - cold and detached. 

“What did she want?” I take my seat. 

“Help on a case,” you answer.

“I doubt that,” I mutter.

Finally, you look at me. “Her flat was broken into while she was in Asia. Nothing was taken but definitely searched - rather thoroughly.”

“You once said she had a list of dubious clients.”

“She claims to be done with all that. Now she’s a patron of the arts, but who knows.”

“Why didn’t she just call the police?” I ask.

“She did, and of course they couldn’t find anything. She thinks it has something to do with the gang which has something to do with Moriarty. That leads to us,” you say gravely.

“I’m just collateral damage in that. Nothing more,” I sniff.

“Perhaps once you were. Now that you are with me, you are a target.” Your hands knit together.

“Does she know about us?” I ask.

You shrug. “I don’t know.”

“You didn’t tell her?” 

“It’s none of her business, really,” you say plainly.

“You couldn’t wait to tell Greg,” I toss back at you.

“That was different. Greg was sending emails and messages.” There is a slight bite.

Of course you knew about those. 

“I know it’s not the first time she’s contacted you,” I say. 

You frown. “How do you know?”

“I heard her ringtone on your phone a few weeks back. Why is it still that noise?” 

“Then I know it is her and I can chose to ignore it.” A slow grin spreads across your face. “Lucy, are you jealous?”

“No,” I scoff and stand so you won’t see my blush. “I’m wary of her like you were wary of Greg.”

“You have nothing to be jealous of.” You clear the afternoon tea. 

“Why not, she is THE woman, isn’t she? Perfect body. Amazing intellect. How could anyone compare?” I feel tears bite at the back of my throat. The wine has gone directly to my head. I didn’t eat lunch and that would explain it. 

“Yes, she’s rather smart, but I don’t trust her.” You lean against the new table. 

“Yet, you are trying to help her?”

“I’m trying to see if there is indeed a connection between her current situation and the case I’ve been working on.” Your eyes darken. “I’ve learned to keep enemies close.” 

“I think that is exactly what she wants.” I take another large gulp.

You move closer. “I don’t trust her. The only thing I want from her is information that I can find useful. I do not find her appealing or interesting otherwise.”

“But before…..I walked in one time….” My head swims. 

“How long ago? While you were dating Greg? Her interest in me has always been about control and nothing more. She does not believe in equality. Nothing she has to offer me intrigues me.” You place your hands on my arms. 

“What do I have?” I look up.

“Lucy,” you smile. “Insecurity does not become you. There is much about you that intrigues me. You challenge me in ways I could not possibly imagine.”

Your voice has dropped to a whisper. I feel my resolve slip from me as do my sobriety and anger. 

“Stop trying to flatter me.” I walk away but your arms wrap around me.

Your chest presses to my back. “Shall I show you?” Your breath is hot in my ear as one hand trails along the length of my arm to my shoulder. 

I bite my lip as your lips press against the back of my neck. “Sherlock….”

***   *  *  *  *  *  ***

**Sherlock**

Lightly, I run my lips gently across the skin of your throat - stopping to nip a little along the way. You melt into me, surrendering your insecurity. I plan to show you how much I desire you over anyone. 

My hand runs along the silkiness of your blouse, over the swell of your breasts. Your back arches against my fingers. You set your wine glass down on the table in front of you. I feel you try to face me, but I hold you against me. This is a new perspective for me, and it is most arousing. 

“I want you like this,” I say into your ear. 

“Think you’re ready for this, Holmes?” you ask. 

My hand slips under your shirt. “Absolutely.”

My teeth graze the flesh of your neck. Your backside grinds against my hips. Unbuttoning your shirt is much easier from this angle. My hand slides up your thigh to feel a slight bulge beneath the polyester.

“Is this what I think it is?” I ask.

“I’d be shocked if you knew what it was,” you murmur. 

“A garter belt? For me?” I growl against your shoulder as I pull your shirt off. 

“If you want it to be for you.” You are good at teasing.

“What sort of job interview did you go on, Miss Adams?” I snap a garter.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” One hands curls around to grab my thigh. “Mr. Holmes.”

Slowly, I raise your skirt to reveal a nude colored garter belt and matching lace knickers. My arousal throbs under your hand. 

How could you ever think I would desire anyone as much as you? 

Swiftly, I unbutton my shirt to feel your skin on mine. Your head drops back on my shoulder. I turn your face and our mouths collide awkwardly in passion. Your stomach shudders under my touch as I slide past your navel to slip under the lace fabric. You moan against my lips. 

“Get those bloody trousers off,” you demand. 

I never take commands, but I comply quickly. I know you are ready, but I cannot pull these lace panties off. The bloody garters prevent me from slipping them off. 

“So, these are clearly aesthetic only,” I sigh.

You chuckle as I struggle. “You can solve murders, but not how to remove knickers?”

“You have my mind at a great disadvantage as the blood has rushed elsewhere.” I give your bottom a firm pat. 

“There are scissors on the coffee table,” you say.

“You want me to cut them off? They are rather nice,” I protest.

“Then buy me another pair. Do you want them off?” 

Without another word, I grab my passage to heaven. My erection pulses so  much that I do not care how I get these bleeding things off. I’ll use my teeth if need be. 

You part your legs and lean your palms flat against the table. It is the most seductive sight I have ever seen. Carefully, I cut the crotch of your lace panties. Tossing the scissors to the floor, I kiss from your back to your neck. One hand curls around my neck and your fingers dig into my hair. Your buttocks rub against my erection. 

“Lucy,” I growl as my fingers explore you. 

A part of me wanted to whirl your around right then, but your apple shaped bottom beckons me. I’ve never done this before, and you are a willing and generous educator. I position myself against you. You force yourself backwards. With my hands on your hips, I glide inside you - carefully at first. Your legs part more to accommodate me. My hips move on their own accord. I’m deeper than I’ve ever been. Your breath hitches in your throat.

“Am I hurting you?” I still myself.

“Don’t you dare stop now,” you gasp. 

You bend over the table as I move again. The wood creaks with each thrust. I lean down and breathe in the sweat that collects in the crook of your neck. Such a sweet scent. Your sighs and moans drive me closer to orgasm. My legs shake as my pace quickens. You feel extraordinary. Why have we not done this sooner?

Despite biting my lip, a choked groan escapes my lips. You tighten around me - your breathing erratic. Your fingers claw at the table. Leaning my head against yours, my hands close over your balled up fists. One last gasp from you signals your climax. I collapse against you, panting. While that was fantastic, it was exhausting. My thighs burn and head spins.

“Look at that. We didn’t break it this time,” you sigh.

“We’ll have to try harder the next time.” I peel off to help you upright. You wince. “Are you hurt?”

“Just stiff.” You stretch your back and neck. 

I look at us in various stages of hurried undress.

“A bit disheveled, eh?” You smooth down your skirt.

I pull up my trousers. “If Mycroft could see me now.”

“It’s Mycroft, how do you know he can’t?” 

With a laugh, I pull you to my lips. “That’s what I missed.”

Your arms wrap around me. I savor the wine on your tongue. 

“Fancy a shower?” I ask.

“Together?”

“I assume that we both need to rinse off,” I suggest.

You nod. “I definitely need a rinse with some soap.”

“Why waste water by taking turns? It’s not as if we’ve not seen each other in the nude.” Your sudden shyness surprises me.

You still seem bewildered by the suggestion. “That’s true. Let’s shower….then maybe some take away.”

Despite being exhausted from christening the new table, the simple act of washing arouses us for at least a steamy and wet session of manual exploration and manipulation. The sensation of your wet skin on mine makes me wonder if I will ever want to shower alone again. In this light, I see every mole and curve of flesh. I kiss the spray of light brown freckles across your shoulders. The more intercourse we have, the more I want - almost like a drug. 

We order Chinese take away. You eat all the Lo Mein. I wonder the wisdom of that. John and Mary’s wedding is in just a few weeks and you’ve been bemoaning the need to lose a few pounds. I almost mention that, but decide against it. I’m learning that there are times when my opinion is not wanted or appreciated. 

***  *  *  *  *  *  *  ***

**Lucy**

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Bart Granger lifts from his seat to shake my hand.

“Thank you for taking time to speak with me.”

It’s my second interview with Infotech and I still have no a clue what they do. It would seem a little bit of everything from textiles, energy and science stuff. They could sell black market body parts and I would have still accepted this interview. After the encounter with Irene, I feel definitely motivated to get a job and be slightly more productive than donning the great Sherlock Holmes’ socks. 

Bart Granger doesn’t seem to care that I’ve been out of work for months or that my old job had nothing to do with marketing. The few items that I’ve done for friends seem to impress him.

“Did you ever consider going into business for yourself?” He asks.

“Not really. I don’t have the proper equipment.” I had never considered that.

He explains the expansion that Infotech is undertaking. They have offices in London, Glasgow, Brighton and Belfast. There are teams opening the first offices abroad in American and France. 

“Ever been to New York?” he asks.

“No. I’ve never been to America,” I say. 

“Ever fancy a trip?”

Infotech wants people to go to New York to break the American market. Would I be interested?

America. Where was this offer a year ago when I was shiftless and nearly homeless? Leaving Mum behind would almost be a relief. 

But there is you. When I moved into 221B Baker, I never envisioned being where I am today. Just a few nights ago, we had the most normal night a couple could have - a shag, a shower and some take-away while curled in our parlour. I can’t remember the last night you slept in your own bed. Even on nights we don’t have sex, you sleep beside me. I’ve gone to bed earlier only to wake under your weight joining me. I try not to dwell on the fact that we have yet to cross the threshold of your room. 

I express tentative interest in hearing about this America thing. Bart assures me that there would be plenty time to consider a large leap. There are a few more interviews. Of course, training and orientation that would happen in England. However come summertime, America would need me. 

It is a lot to think about. I’m not getting younger. Yes, you have grown quite a bit since the day I unpacked my things. Is it enough? You’ve yet to declare love or deep affection. Every so often, I endure Irene’s moans on your mobile. Being the pioneer in your sex life, will I find myself obsolete or unnecessary when someone else demands to take over?

***  *  *  *  *  *  ***

**Sherlock**

Molly works beside me in silence. I am grateful, but I can hear her teeth click as the chews on her lower lip. Her eyes dart nervously. She knows that I know she told Lestrade about us. I don’t have any ill will towards her. In fact, she took care of an unpleasant task for me. I would thank her if I was sure she wouldn’t faint.

“So, how’s things?” she asks.

“Molly, there is no need to make small talk,” I say.

She clamps her mouth shut. For a moment, she returns to her work.

“I didn’t mean to….you know,” she stutters. 

I turn my head. “Tell Lestrade I was with Lucy.”

“I-I-I wasn’t spying. I j-just turned the corner and saw…” Her voice trails off. She clears her throat. “I never expected to see something like that.”

I smile. “Oh come now, Molly. I’m not that cold, am I?” 

She opens her mouth.

“Don’t answer that,” I say. “Yes, all the gossip is true. I’m shagging my flatmate.”

Her face turns a deep violet. “I didn’t suggest that.”

“Oh, people talk - they do little else. Now you know for certain.” I look back to the microscope. “Tell me what you see.”

She stares at me blankly. I see emotions flash in her eyes - sadness, hurt, shock. 

I gesture to the microscope. “In here. What do you see here?”

She refocuses the lens. “I’m not certain. It looks like a powder, like a spice.”

“Like a type of curry?” I ask.

She nods. “Yes. But it would be common to find that in London.”

“True, but it’s not just simple curry,” I fold my arms. “Look closer.”

She blinks into the microscope. “Is that….cocaine?”

“Heroin,” I state. “And something else.”

Molly steps away so I can look again. I look at the fine granules mixed with the fine powder. I feel her hover close to me, waiting for another peek.

“Good afternoon, am I interrupting?” A smooth voice purrs.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Adler?” I don’t look up. Molly jumps away.

“So, this is where the genius takes hold of you,” she says.

“I am the genius, remember?” I hold Irene’s gaze to remind her of my win years ago. “Do you have something for me?”

“Molly, this is Ms. Irene Adler,” I announce and watch Irene’s pupil dilate. 

“Have we met?” Molly’s voice is small like her.

“No, that wasn’t her,” I say over my shoulder. 

Confusion clouds Molly’s face.

“In the morgue, that wasn’t her.”

Irene’s lips curl back to reveal pearly white teeth. “Oh Sherlock, you remember….”

I watch the realization dawn on Molly’s face in pure horror. 

“Faking death is always worth remembering.” I slip the drive into my pocket and return to my work. Irene hovers. “Is there something else?”

“Let’s have dinner.” She leans closer.

“Molly, do I ever eat dinner?” I ask.

“No, you hardly ever eat,” she answers nervously.

I flash a grin. “See? A witness. I’m really quite busy here and do need to focus.”

Irene does not mask her disappointment well. “Of course. I’m glad to see you so committed to my little problem.” She moves away. “And I’m sure you’ll have to run home at some point.”

I have no idea how she knows, but that comment is surely directed to our new situation. I refuse to acknowledge it since it is really none of her business. 

“Nice to meet you,” Irene says sweetly. 

Poor Molly’s face is a window to her emotions. Her eyes sweep ver Irene with envy. Little does she know that Irene is not half the woman that Molly is. However, that is hard to see on the surface with mousy hair and thin lips. I owe much to Molly and will never forget. 

“Um, you too,” Molly says quietly.

“What do you make of this?” I ask her.

Irene takes her cue and sweeps out the door.

“Didn’t I just look at that?” She asks.

I smirk. “I just wanted Ms. Adler to leave. It was entirely unnecessary for her to come down here.”

“Oh, I thought you and she…” 

“No.” I switch the slides in the microscope.

“She’s very beautiful. And you identified her without a….face.” Molly gulps.

“And I was wrong,” I point out. “Clearly, I don’t know her that well. Shall we get back to work?”

“Of course.” She nods.

Tonight, I will have to see if there is anything useful on the drive Irene gave me. She seems to think it is valuable enough to bring here herself.  Her motives are cloudy at best, but she may prove to be a useful ally - better than a nefarious foe. 

***  *  *  *  ***

**Sherlock**

“Thank you so much, Lucy,” John sits on the Chesterfield. 

“I know that’s probably more than Sherlock can handle. How was your stag night?” I ask as I put the kettle on.

“We, um, poured over case files in Greg’s office,” he says.

“You cannot be serious. I told him to take you to a dinner or something festive,” I cluck.

“He did get takeaway and provide a six pack of lager with it. To be honest, it was more than I thought I would get from him,” he shakes his head.

“When he came home late, I thought maybe he did something…..normal,” I shrug.

John chuckles. “Sherlock will never be normal.”

I nod thoughtfully. “Yes, I know.”

It’s true - I’ll never worry about you going to a nudie bar to ogle at bare breasts. I have a dominatrix to worry about instead. How many other women have this problem?

“Everything all right?” he asks.

“Between Sherlock and me, you mean?” 

“Or just in general. I know you’ve been looking for a job. How’s that going?” John removes his coat.

“I have a few leads. I might be going on a third interview for one soon.” I can’t tell John that job leads me to America. I know he’ll tell you right away. What if you don’t talk me out of it? 

“That’s great. I know what it is like to not find work. It’s frustrating,” he nods. 

“And boring. I can only help Sherlock with his work for so long.” I smile. “And he keeps telling me I’m not as good as you.”

“You are prettier to look at,” John teases. 

The kettle whistles from the kitchen. 

“He does demand a lot of time,” I hear him call as I pour the hot water into two mugs. “I don’t think I’d be getting married if he didn’t disappear.”

“I admit that I don’t know much about that other than Moriarty was involved. He won’t discuss it. And that’s fine, I understand that was a tough time for everyone involved. I am afraid it will happen again.” I sit beside John.

His hand covers my knee. “I would never let him do that to you.”

“That’s nothing we can control,” I say. I take a deep breath. “Irene has been contacting him quite a bit.”

His back straightens. “Is she now?”

“Mostly through text. She was here a few days ago. I can’t shake the feeling that she’s up to no good,” I sigh.

“When it comes to her, you never know her true motive.” His face darkens. 

“Do you anything that happened between them? I’m afraid to ask. He assured me that he doesn’t trust her.” 

I feel silly asking John about this. I can’t get a reading from you when it comes to Irene. You seem unimpressed, but you answer her calls and allow her into our house. 

“You know he’s not one to share feelings. He was shaken when he thought she was killed. Even more so after he found out she was alive. I don’t know what it was about her that had him captivated. I think it was the mystery, the power play,” he shrugs. “Battle of wits.”

“I don’t have any of that,” I say sullenly. 

Compared to Irene, I’m ordinary and boring. I don’t look fetching in a fitted dress. My hair won’t look like 1940’s starlet. I don’t keep my mouth shut and I’m not not enigmatic. 

“No, you are nothing like her, and that’s why he loves you,” John says.

“Has he said that to you?” I’m surprised that John said the L word before you.

“He hasn’t had to. I saw him after the shooting sitting by your hospital bed. He cried. He prayed. I never saw him like that - ever.” John’s voice is serious and sad. “But I knew the night Greg proposed.”

“You knew then?” I try to recall if you acted oddly that night. No more than any other night.

“I thought he would crawl out of his skin. He cares for you, Lucy. I know it is easy to doubt, and he may never say it….but he loves you in his own special Sherlock way,” he smiles. 

Special-Sherlock-way that will never be like a normal relationship. You thrust yourself in danger, consult with a famed dominatrix, and are entirely unpredictable. Yet I cannot resist that bloody smile and those full lips. Your eyes are my Achilles heel. Once you fix me in your gaze, I melt. How can we be so right and so opposite at the same time?

“It is a special position I find myself in.” I sip my tea.

“I knew from the beginning.” John smiles.

“When I moved in?” I raise my eyebrows.

Our first days were not smooth to say the least. I do not recall either of us giving off a vibe of unresolved sexual tension.

“There was something about the way you interacted -like you had your own unspoken language.” John is beaming like a successful Cupid. I reckon that he takes some credit in us. 

If he starts talking about soulmates, I might be ill. I never believed in the concept. I gather you feel the same. Perhaps that is how we work well together.

“Try not to worry about Irene. He’s a genius and would never do anything that would jeopardize what he has with you. I honestly cannot see him with anyone else,” John says. 

I hear you bustle up the stairs like you are taking them two at a time. The door swings open to reveal your unusually flushed pallor.

“Lucy,” you say with relief. Then you see my tea partner and frown. “John, were we supposed to meet?”

“No, I came to see Lucy,” he smiles.

Your frown deepens. “Lucy? Why?”

“Is my company that perplexing? You seem to enjoy it,” I tease.

You remove your coat. “Judging by tea, I’d say we enjoy your company differently.”

Your sex drive is insatiable.

“I came to give her these.” John produces a small velvet box from the pocket of his trousers.

“What’s that?” You ask.

“The wedding rings,” he announces proudly before handing the box to me.

“May I see?” I ask.

“Of course.”

Nestled in cranberry velvet are matching gold bands each with a delicate ribbon etched around the ring.

“A bit feminine,” you peer over my shoulder.

“Stop,” I scold. “They are lovely.”

He nods. “They are a little feminine but Mary wanted something unique.”

You hold out your hand. “I’ll take them.”

“He is giving them to me,” I say.

“But I’m the best man, it’s my job,” you protest.

“We, Mary and I, feel that Lucy should be in charge of them.” He speaks like a cautious father.

“You don’t trust me?” You laugh.

“Not trust is a strong statement. I just know that you have a lot on your mind with this case and it’s something that cannot be forgotten,” he says carefully.

You don’t believe him. “Fine. One less thing to take up valuable space,” you shrug. 

Your hand drops to rest on the back of my neck as you sit on the arm of the Chesterfield. It’s such a rare act of affection that it catches me off guard. You do it with such ease and no hint of irony that my earlier fears subside. I see the glint of pride in Cupid’s eye as he sips his tea - happy to be updated on the latest on the case. 

When John leaves, you pin me to the door to give me a kiss so deep I feel it in my toes - among other places. Tonight, you can’t wait for the bedroom and we collapse to the very spot where John drank his tea. 


	28. That dressing gown can't be warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John prepares for the wedding of the century and Sherlock believes he is being buried alive

**Sherlock**

“She’s been expecting you,” says the blonde woman servant. 

She leads me through the foyer to the very room where I met Irene. I cast a glance to the mantel which held her prized possessions and wondered if it was still armed. 

The furniture has changed, yet still French provincial. Irene was not one for ornate decorations and kept her public rooms sparse. By the wear on the upholstery, the parlour was hardly used except to receive guests. 

“She’ll be right with you,” the blonde snips coolly. 

She has been in Irene’s company for many years. The dress she wears is a cast-off from Irene. The blonde feels it is an act of affection to receive it when Irene is clearly done with the garment. She and Irene have been lovers, but it has been some time since an invitation to bed has been extended. The blonde is discarded like the dress she wears - and bitter to anyone she feels is a threat. Her disdain for me suggests I am one. 

I don’t sit despite being gestured to a sofa. I take in everything from scuffs on the floor to the freshness of the flowers. Not trusting Irene, and I stay alert.

“Sherlock,” she breathes as she sweeps in the door.

Unlike our introduction, she wears a simple skirt and blouse. Everything about her appearance is neutral and unreadable. If she is trying to impress me, she has worked to mask it.

“Have you called the police?” I ask.

“I don’t trust them,” she answers. “I want your thoughts before I call them.”

“Take me to see it,” I say.

Irene leads me up the stairs, closer to her inner sanctum. We pass several closed doors to a room at the end of the hall. She opens double doors to reveal her personal study. 

The room is torn to shreds. Papers scatter from the desk to the floor. Scrawled across an expensive oil painting of herself are the words ‘GET SHERLOCK’ in red paint - apparently to resemble blood. The culprit was left-handed and careless. The letters are all different sizes and the paint runs down the wall. It was rushed as if the person knew exactly how much time they had to complete the job. Not someone who cared. 

“I assume your computer was taken,” I turn to face her. I don’t trust Irene to have my back to her.

She nods. “My laptop and all my jump drives.”

“Anything important?” I ask.

“Some delicate financial data.” She inches closer. “My journal.”

“Dreams and hopes?” I raise an eyebrow.

She grins. “Something like that.”

He used gloves and left no marks on the floor. Police? No, clearly this was made to look like a vendetta. Something to drawn me in personally.

“This is because I contacted you after the first time, isn’t it?” She folds her arms. “It’s because I gave you that drive.”

“They want it to appear that way.”

“Appear? You don’t think I’m in danger?” She asks.

“The question is, do you?”

“Let me get the note.” She excuses herself.

The jump drive is mildly intriguing. I’ve had you looking to find anything really useful in it. With another mysterious death of a gang member, I have been locked to soil samples and little bits of evidence. 

I sit behind the desk and open the drawers. Even more curious. Despite the papers scattered about, the drawers are still organized. Nothing looks taken or out of place. Did he not have time? Was that not the agenda? 

“Find anything interesting?” she asks in the doorway. 

Gone are the subtle skirt and blouse to be replaced with a sheer dressing gown and not much else. She’s applied a fresh coat of red lipstick to her lips. Her pert nipples are staring at me, and I feel a stirring in my trousers and my stomach.

“The contents of your desk seem undisturbed,” I say. “Why would that be?”

“I’m not sure. They took my computer. I think that’s quite a lot,” she walks over to the desk giving me a better view of her body.

Immediately, I begin to compare her to you. Your breasts are rounder and more voluptuous. While there doesn’t seem to be an ounce of fat on her, I prefer the softer curves of your body. Her pale skin stretches across her protruding bones like an ancient instrument. 

“Let’s see this note,” I say.

She hands me a paper with cut out magazine clippings in the style of a ransom note. ‘ _Stop flapping to Sherlock or get ur throat kut_ ’.

“That’s lovely,” I muse and hand it back to her.

“Don’t you want to keep it?” she asks.

“You might to show it to the police so they can offer protection,” I say dryly.

“I thought you might want to analyze the glue or paper,” she says.

“It’s a basic school glue anyone can get at a chemist. I could dust for prints, but can tell upon first glance there is none. Why? There is none anywhere in this room. They meticulously used gloves so they would not be traced.” I see the pale skin of her backside and deduct she is not wearing panties. 

I chip off some spray paint from the oil painting.

“Careful, that’s expensive,” she says.

“Wouldn’t you say it is ruined?” I cock my head to the side.

“I was hoping to have it restored,” she smiles.

“Maybe have a new one painted,” I wrinkle my nose. “The painter was not very good.”

She places her hands on her pointy hips allowing the sheer fabric to slip off her breasts. “Didn’t do me justice?”

I focus on her eyes. What game is she playing? Are there men or syringes behind the door waiting for me?

“There’s not much evidence to gather. Your intruder was a professional,” I state. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

“That’s it?” She asks.

I nod. “I have everything I need.”

She inches closer to lay a hand on my arm. “Do you really?”

“Quite.” My voice is cold.

“Any progress on the file I gave you?” 

“I have Lucy working on it,” I say.

Her head tosses back in laughter. “You have you little girlfriend working for you now? Is John jealous?”

“You know that he is getting married.” I step back. The dressing gown no longer covers her rosy nipples. 

“You seem on edge, Sherlock.” Her nostrils flare in excitement. 

“Last time I was here, I wound up drugged,” I say.

“I have no plans to drug you. That would prove counter productive,” she purrs.

I do not ask. The moment she entered the study in nothing more than gauze, I had my suspicions about the need for this visit. 

“Let’s pick up where we left off,” she leers up into my face. “I only wish I was the one to pop your cherry.”

“Contrary to your belief, I was not virgin.” I am afraid that my chemical reaction to having a mostly naked woman toss herself at me is getting the better of me. 

“Maybe not, but you’ve expanded your knowledge. Show me what you know, and I’ll blow your mind.” She places her hand on my chest. 

“I really doubt that,” I state. 

“I’ll even let you lead. Maybe you can make me beg for mercy.” Her hands slide down. “Twice.”

I swallow hard. For a moment I think how satisfying it would be kiss her hard and indeed make her beg for more. To have her on her knees pleading me to take her. For the scent of her yearning to fill this room, and make her taste it - only to leave without giving her what she wants, my body and mind. 

No, this isn’t love she’s offering. I am not certain it’s even lust. She wants to make me think she’s succumbing to me knowing that if I were to even touch her, I have betrayed you. Then I will have lost everything. No amount of power is worth that. 

“If you don’t have official business for me, then there is no reason to stay.” I take another step back to increase the distance between us.

My body wants to betray my mind. This is how mortal men fall - they let their ego and sex rule everything else. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a rather pressing engagement. I’ll show myself out.”

“Another time, perhaps.” She shrugs casually, but the disappointment doesn’t dissipate. 

With a nod, I take my leave. My pace quickens once I hit the sidewalk. I know I will not change my mind, but I am troubled I even entertained the thought of tossing her to the floor and making her whimper my name. It was the control I wanted, not her body. 

While looking at her slight frame, I could only think how I longed for your soft curves. Our coupling, while not entirely equal in experience, is based on the same desire to bring pleasure to one another and connection. If I had allowed myself to take part in copulation with Irene, I would walk away empty and subservient. 

All the way home in the taxi, I cannot stop thinking of the organized contents within the desk. It is entirely possible that the jump drive Irene has provided is nothing but naked photos of herself. Would she really go through all that trouble to seduce me? Perhaps she knew the painting was terrible, and added the spray paint for effect. 

Irene is a smarter woman than this. She would never stoop to childish pranks as a mask for enticement.

I bound up the stairs to our flat. My only thought is take you the moment I walk in the door. I want your mouth to erase the sour taste of my thoughts.  

“Lucy,” I breathe as my eyes meet yours. What is John doing here? “John, were we supposed to meet?”

“No, I came to see Lucy.”

“Lucy? Why?” A sense of paranoia grips me. Did I tell John I was seeing Irene?

“Is my company that perplexing? You seem to enjoy it.” Your voice is warm and I feel suddenly at ease.

“Judging by tea, I’d say we enjoy your company differently.” I return your grin. 

“I came here to give her these.” John retrieves a box from his trousers.

“What’s that?” They look like cufflinks I received years ago.

“The wedding rings.” He gives the box to you.

“Can I see?” Your eyes light up.

“Of course,” he says.

Inside the box are two frilly gold rings. 

“A bit feminine.”

“Stop,” you cluck. You turn to John. “They are lovely.”

John’s cheeks pink slightly. “They are a little feminine but Mary wanted something unique.”

“I’ll take them.”

“He’s giving them to me to hold,” you say.

“But I’m the best man. It’s my job.”

John clears his throat. “We, Mary and I, feel that Lucy should be in charge of them.”

I snort. “You don’t trust me?”

“Not trust is a strong statement. I just know that you have a lot on your mind with this case and it’s something that cannot be forgotten,” he says carefully.

“Fine. One less thing to take up space.”

John lingers longer than I’d like. I wait patiently for him to leave before  I press you against the door to kiss you so hard, I don’t know where I end and you begin. My guilt and passion mingle. I long to bury myself in your skin. The moment you touch me, the dark fog lifts. It is clear that was a moment of male weakness to even ponder those thoughts.

“Let’s go to bed.” Your teeth tug at my earlobe.

“I can’t wait,” I growl and lower you to the Chesterfield. 

I taste every inch of you, delighting in your sighs and moans. My lips do not leave yours as we move to our climax. I call your name so loud, I expect Mrs. Hudson to slam a broom handle against the ceiling. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

**Lucy**

I sit up straight and rub the back of my neck. I don’t know how you manage to remain motionless for hours, just moving slides and Petri dishes. I switch my focus from the payroll records and spreadsheets on the monitor to the piles of paperwork you’ve given me to cross reference.

We’ve been at this for five hours. The flat looks like a cyclone has struck it with papers and files everywhere. The table is littered with science stuff - vials and chemicals I’m not allowed to even look at or could even pronounce. 

My stomach rumbles in hunger. We should have had dinner hours ago. However, you don’t eat and that is no help to me. I pass you in the kitchen and grab a bag of crisps. It will have to do until I can coerce you to order take away. I have no room to cook if I wanted. 

You do not stir. Your eyes barely blink. It reminds me of when I first moved in - you at the microscope and so focused. Even then, I was mesmerized by the dark curls on the collar of your shirt. I imagined they felt like silk, and they do. Even now, I want to thread my fingers through them, but I wouldn’t dare disturb you so deep in concentration. Instead, I return to my work. 

After a few minutes,”Sherlock.”

No answer.

“Sherlock,” I say louder. Still nothing. “Sherlock!”

“What?” You are clearly annoyed.

“I think I found something,” I say.

Your faces switches like a channel. “What? You did?”

“Come look.”

You drag a chair beside me. 

“I found a link between some of these dead members and some invoices and payroll accounts on here. They have one thing in common - they deal with spice. This store here specializes in it. This one here, it’s an Asian market that sells spices. This one is a Cantonese restaurant,” I point out.

“And at some point, they had these men on their payroll.” You grin. 

“Also in researching these names, these men were brilliant. Chemists, biologists, computer programmers.” I frown.

“Not typical gang bangers,” you nod.

“Most are foreign and here illegally,” I say.

“How did you discover that?”

“I’m on your laptop. You don’t think I know what it can do?” I smirk slyly.

You grab my face and kiss me. “You are so sexy when you are cunning. If I didn’t need us to work, I’d take you on this desk.”

“It might be the last piece of furniture left unsoiled. Save for the kitchen counters….and your bed,” I mention pointedly.

You take out your mobile. My last comment sails over your head; or you choose to ignore it.

“Who are you ringing?”

“John. I need him to do some legwork.” Your hips shimmy as they do when you are excited about about a breakthrough on a case. I wonder if you know that you dance like that.

“I can do it,” I offer.

“No, I need you here to dig deeper.” Your eyes sparkle. “Besides, if you keep being so bloody brilliant, I may need to violate you in several ways.”

Most women would take offense to a comment like that. I know that from you it is a compliment. 

Despite the showering of affection you give me, I don’t forget where this information came from. Irene is up to something insidious. I wouldn’t put it past her to be involved and use it to get close to you. 

John is on his way over, begrudgingly. 

“Let’s order some takeaway,” I suggest.

“I’m not hungry,” you answer.

“I need to nourishishment. The small bag of crisps won’t sustain me.”

Reluctantly, you agree to take a break until after John gets to the flat. It will give me enough time to refuel and try to get you to eat something - anything.

Before John or food delivery come, you pull me close. 

“I will thank you properly tonight,” you mutter against my neck. You feel ready to drop me to the floor. The strangest things turn you on.

And you do thank me - at four in the morning when you return from night crawling with John. You press your night-chilled skin to my bed-warmed body. You take me with such vigor that we fall asleep as the sun creeps into the room. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

** Sherlock **

It feels as though I’m being buried alive. The air is stifling and humid. My throat closes as the silk noose tightens, making me fight for air. 

“Sherlock, stop tugging at the collar,” Mrs. Hudson slaps my hand away. 

“I loathe wearing suits,” I sigh.

“You wear them every single day,” you chuckle.

I feel like a mannequin with you and Mrs. Hudson staring at me. 

“This is a tuxedo. I hate wearing ties. It feels like a noose.” I slip my finger underneath and tug.

“It’s one day,” you say. 

“One long day,” I grumble.

Mrs. Hudson places her hands on her hips. “Sherlock Holmes, John is your best and was your only friend until Lucy came along. You will wear that tuxedo and you will not complain about it!”

I snap my mouth shut. In the past, I have spoken out of turn to Mrs. Hudson. You will not let me get away with ‘that kind of disrespect’ as you say. I am fully aware that I will have to grin and bear it for John’s wedding. In fact, I look forward to the day since it feels as though we’ve been moving at snail’s pace toward it. Too much of my energy and slight thought has been given to the pomp and circumstance of John’s grave mistake. 

Mrs. Hudson bushes off the lapels of the jacket. “Besides, you look so dashing.”

I give you a pained look. 

“You do look very striking in that suit.” Your voice drops seductively.

“Really?” I smooth down the front. “Maybe it’s not so bad. I might need help out of it.”

You do not hide an impish grin as I move closer.

Mrs. Hudson claps her hands over her ears. “I’m going out in an hour. Can you wait until then?”

*  *  *  *  * 

** Lucy **

“I’m so glad you rang. It’s been ages since we’ve done this,” Rachel pokes a straw through her smoothie.

“I only started running a few weeks ago.” I make a face as I sip mine. All the fruit and chocolate in the world cannot mask the kale 

She leads us to a table by the window where we can watch people sweat and strain below us.

“You know we can still get together without the gym being involved,” she says. 

I duck my head. “I know. I wasn’t really up for it. It was an odd winter.”

“How are you after all that? I called round the flat but you were sleeping all the time.” Sarcasm sneaks into her tone.

“After it happened, I did sleep a lot. The nights were hard and I was awake a lot of the time.” I bit my lip. 

“Is it true that your flatmate shot you?” she whispers.

“Yes and no. He certainly didn’t mean to.” This is why I never called Rachel back. I had to recount and relive the ordeal to so many people I thought of putting up a blog for people to refer to it. Yes, you shot me. Of course you didn’t mean it. 

“And this was a friend of his,” Rachel says.

“Far from friend. Opposite of that, actually.” I hate remembering Moriarty at all.

Rachel can tell I don’t want to delve into details. Her hand reaches across the table. “Have you sought help for all this?”

“Physical therapy?” 

“No counseling,” she says. “This guy grabbed you twice, right? That has to have left you with some emotional scars.”

No one ever asks about that. Everyone is worried about the scar in my side or my shoulder. No one has asked about my head.

“I haven’t really thought about counseling.” To be honest, I sought my solace and safety in you. I was too worried about what was running through your head and trying to find work, I didn’t have much time to think about the mental toll everything took. 

After a few seconds, “I do have nightmares sometimes.”

“No doubt.” She gives my hand a squeeze. “You should get some help for that.”

I nod and stare at the people on the treadmill below. I think I was afraid someone will tell me I need to move on with my life: meaning disconnection from everything and everyone involved in that night. 

“Your mum is worried,” she says.

I glance up. My melancholy is replaced with annoyance. “My mum put you to this?”

“No, but she did email to see if I had seen you.” Rachel looks guilty.

“She’s a peach, that Anna,” I mumble.

“She’s just worried like a mother should be.” She leans closer. “Did you really end your engagement to Greg for your flatmate?”

I knew that was next. My life was a tabloid for all to discuss in emails and whispers.

I roll my eyes. “Is that what she told you?”

Rachel shrugs. “Yes, and that he was rude and kicked her out.”

I slam my smoothie on the table. “I should march over there right now. First, that is not what happened at all. After I was in the hospital, I knew I was marrying Greg for all the wrong reasons. You don’t marry someone just because they are nice. Yes, I started having thoughts about Sherlock while I was with Greg. If that isn’t a glaring red flag something is wrong, then I don’t know what is.” 

My hands flail angrily.

“Lucy, calm down. I shouldn’t have said that.” She looks around at the other tables staring at us. 

I leave out the fact that I slept with you before I left Greg. “It happened all at the same time and it was after the shooting.”

She shakes her head. “I’ve only met him once and truthfully, I don’t get it. If he looked like Colin Firth or Brad Pitt, I might understand.”

How do I explain a relationship that I don’t understand?

“He can be very sweet. He doesn’t show that side often,” I sigh. “Okay, he never shows that side to anyone that he doesn’t trust.”

“You make him sound delightful,” she mutters. Immediately she regrets it with one look at my face. “Sorry.”

“Look, I wish I could explain it to you. I can describe the moments between us where it makes perfect sense. How just a smile can tell me everything I need to know. I never expected it to happen when I moved in. I was just a hair above loathing him,” I shrug.

“I do remember you complained quite a bit.” She nodded. She stirs her straw deep in thought. I can see her working on her next words carefully. She looks up. “Have you considered that this is because of what you went through? I mean, you did share a rather spectacular moment with him.”

“Are you suggesting that I fell in love with him because he shot me?” I cock an eyebrow.

“Not that. But he rescued you the first time. And people grow attached under extreme circumstances. Wait, did you just say you love him?” Her eyes widen. 

My heart stops. I’ve just admitted something out loud that I have yet to admit to myself. 

“Well, you know what I mean…got involved with,” I stutter. 

Rachel does not believe me. “I guess you two haven’t covered this territory yet.”

“I don’t know what we are doing, Rach. He cares deeply for me as I do him. I know my mother does not approve.” I rub my eyes. “And I kicked her out of the house for insulting him while he stood there and took it. She called him a freak right in front of him. You don’t approve, fine. You don’t like him, I understand he’s difficult. It’s just human decency, and she was not exhibiting that.”

Now her mouth is hanging open, much like my mum’s did that day. Again, I vehemently defend you and our coupling. Who is anyone to judge? I’ve seen what Rachel has dated in the past.

She reaches across the table again to cover my hand with hers. “We just worry. If you are happy and safe, that’s all that matters.”

I can tell she only half means what she says. She doesn’t understand, and she may never.In fact.  I could very well wind up on her couch balling my eyes out over you. 

We turn to lighter topics like my interview with InfoTech. She supports  going for the next interview which could earn me a visa to America. I ask about her life and the man she was seeing. Christmas was a rough season for us all as that relationship dissolved after the New Year. 

Hours later, we hug farewell and I head home. You are off to investigate some leads from the Homeless Network. It could a late and lonely night for me. Tomorrow is the wedding, and and I had reminded you that it could be a long day. You will need a decent rest to be the most effervescent Sherlock you can be.  


	29. More than this....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May I now introduce...Dr. and Mrs. John Watson........

**Lucy**

The flat is dark when I walk inside. I flick the switch and the kitchen table illuminates. I’m surprised to see a rather large floral arrangement at the center of the table. I chuckle in the quiet flat. I had mentioned that a house filled with flowers was not necessary - one nice arrangement would be lovely. There are some exquisite and exotic flowers - I’m impressed. You must have left them before you went out knowing I would find them when I came home. I lean over to smell the one red rose at the center when I spy the card. 

‘Thank you for the other night, yours, Irene’

My smoothie rises to the back of my throat so violently, I have to cover my mouth with my hand. What was the other night? When was that? We were home together the last two nights….so it must be the night John came over to give me the rings. The night you came home flushed and impatient to be rid of John so you could shag me on the sofa. Was it after you shagged her? To think that I let the word ‘love’ tumble from my lips so carelessly, so stupidly. 

I’m so lost in my own demons that I don’t hear you walk in behind me.

“Evening,” you say. 

I cannot turn around. I feel irrational words bite at the tip of my tongue and I don’t want to be that ‘girlfriend’. I steady myself against the table. 

“See? I am home at a reasonable time,” you chirp. “Did you just get home from the health club?”

“I was with a friend.” My voice betrays me and shakes. 

I feel you stare at my back as you attempt to deduce what the issue is. 

“Did you over extend yourself? You sound as if in pain.”

“I didn’t, but you clearly did.” I move to reveal the bouquet. 

“Who are the flowers for?” you ask. 

“Not for me. They are yours,” I answer.

Your forehead creases. “Mine?”

You snatch the card nestled within. After you scan the note. you roll your eyes. “It’s not what you perceive. Remember who this is coming from.”

“I didn’t say anything,” I shrug.

You cock your head. “You didn’t have to. Your face is all the dialogue I need.”

You gather the arrangement in your arms and swiftly dump it into the garbage. If you think that simply tossing them makes everything better, you are not as smart as you think you are.

“I went to Irene’s the other night. She had some things stolen and her study vandalized. I was there perhaps fifteen minutes and came home,” you say quietly. “And before you retort, it only takes fifteen minutes, you know I am not like that.”

“I never accused you of anything,” I say.

“Your eyes and body language did. This is what she wants you to think. Since she cannot toy with my emotions, she is toying with yours.” You inch closer. 

“If you know all this, why go?” I ask.

“That jump drive proves she’s involved. I need to find out how much and what she knows of the others. As long as associates of Moriarty plague the streets, I fear you are not safe. Keep your enemies close,” you say quietly. 

“Remember that is a turn of phrase. When it comes to Irene, the same room is too close,” I hiss. 

“She knows my position regarding that.” You close your eyes. “Wrong choice of words.”

I rub my eyes. “I need to shower and we have to get some sleep.”

You touch my arm. “I need to know that you believe me.”

One look and I know you didn’t touch her. There is fear in those blue eyes of yours - the ones I cannot resist. 

“I don’t understand the fascination and why you allow yourself to be played by her,” I sigh.

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m not being played by her, but you are. I’ll say it until you believe it. I do not want anything she has to offer.”

Your hand cups under my chin to tilt my eyes up to yours. 

“Except information,” I suggest. 

“Useful information like what you found on that drive. Did she mean for us to figure it out? Did she hand it over on purpose? This is what I need to know - nothing more,” you say so softly that I want to melt in your hands. 

This is what Rachel could never understand. These tender moments when I see a you that no one else sees. 

You kiss me gently without agenda. Even as our kiss deepens, there is no heat behind it that suggests you are looking for a shag. 

You take in a deep breath and wrinkle your nose. “You do need a shower.”

Playfully, I give you a shove. “For that, you can’t join me.”

I feel a little settled but not completely at ease. As long Irene keeps contacting you in whatever way she can, I won’t be able to rest. You say that it has nothing to do with emotion, by why else would a woman work this hard to get your attention? 

The flat is dark when I get out of the shower. You must have gone to bed. Like every night lately, I find you lying in my bed with your hands tucked behind your head. You silently watch me pull on one of your shirts before I join you. 

“You smell much better.” You smile. Your fingers tug at your favorite purple shirt. “I should have never said that you looked fetching in this. I’ll never get it back.”

“You should not leave it on the floor for me,” I tease. 

You pull me close and rest your head on my shoulder. “It still looks better on me.”

“You wish.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

** Sherlock **

You tossed and turned all night. I know that Irene’s latest trick toils on your mind. I should have known Irene would pull something as juvenile as that. If I had returned home before you, I could have disposed of the evidence. It would not be exactly truthful, but it would have saved you a turbulent night’s sleep. 

You leave the flat first with your hair pulled in ponytail and wearing baggy sweats. You are needed to assist Mary in getting dressed. It makes me wonder how large this dress is. 

Despite your unflattering appearance, I make it a point to kiss you before you leave. I wish that I could convey the importance of staying on Irene’s more amicable side. One slip from her could lead to an amazing breakthrough. To bring down all of Moriarty’s acquaintances would ensure your safety. Not to mention how it would elevate my status. It could be my biggest achievement thus far.

I procrastinate getting ready. I button my shirt when Mrs. Hudson knocks on the door.

“Sherlock, the car is here,” she calls.

I open the door for her. We’ve been better about locking it since Mrs. Hudson walked in on a lively intimate moment. She has been better about knocking.

“Almost ready.” I look around for my shoes. 

“We don’t want to be late.” She wrings her hands nervously. 

Of course, you leave everything I need by the door. 

“Do you have the rings?” She asks.

I pat my pants. “No, Lucy should have them.”

“I thought that was the best man’s job.” She frowns.

“That is Lucy, apparently,” I deadpan.

We climb into the black car waiting for us. I give a long hard look at the driver - a habit I developed in the last few months. I keep my mobile handy. I’m a bit shocked you have not called of texted to see where we were. 

“I never thought in a million years that I would say this, but maybe one day I’ll be attending yours,” Mrs. Hudson chimes with a large grin.

I look out the window. “Just because I have become involved with the opposite sex, I wouldn’t start picking out China patterns.”

“You’d be a fool to let her go. Not many would put up with you, Sherlock,” she scolds. 

Please let there be no traffic. I decide to not respond and begin flattering Mrs. Hudson. Most people prefer talking about themselves, especially when it is complimentary.

We are not as late as I perceived. A few guests mill about the church. There is no sign of John. Harry waves from the front row on the grooms’ side. I feel a bit lost, unsure of where to go. If this had been a crime scene, I would know exactly what to do. I seat Mrs.Hudson beside Harry to gush over the impending proceedings while I move to the front of the church. I hear voices echo down a hallway and move towards them. I will find either a bride or groom. 

Your back is to me while you arrange a large bouquet of white roses. The strapless blue dress does wonderful things for your silhouette. Your exposed shoulders and neck beg for my lips. 

“You are breathtaking,” I stand behind you.

I see you smile. “From you, that’s quite a compliment.”

I wince when you turn around. “A bit heavy on the make up.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m going to fix it after the photos. They always apply more for pictures. My face is itchy.”

Your eyes are like two blue diamonds dropped in the snow, clear and dazzling. “It doesn’t ruin the overall artwork.”

“Thank you, I think,” you smirk.

I think back to what Mrs. Hudson said in the car about not finding anyone else like you. If you disappeared tomorrow, I know you could not be replaced. I wouldn’t attempt it. Instead, I would bring you back.

“Where’s your tie?” you ask.

“Bloody hell,” I curse. I knew I was forgetting something.

You look amused - not a reaction I expect.

“Check your pocket,” you smile.

On cue, my hand finds it in my jacket pocket. And you knew to put it in the right. These moments are precious.

“Give it to me.” Despite wearing three inch heels, you need to reach up to place it around my neck. I smell your skin and the toxic hairspray. 

“I’m not one for public copulation, but you may change my mind.” I peer down into the cleavage of your dress. 

“Really? Fantastic,” you mutter while concentrating on making the bow perfect. “You have such a romantic way with words.”

“Oh, was I supposed to use the more amorous term of shagging?” I say in your ear. 

You cock one eyebrow. “Sherlock Holmes, stand down this instant.”

“Jesus, you had me worried,” John huffs behind me. If I was getting somewhere with you, the mood evaporated.

“Lucy is fixing my tie,” I state. 

He sighs in relief. “Good, you didn’t forget it. But in case you did,” he produces another tie from his pocket.

“An Army man is always prepared,” I smirk.

“You two better run along. Mary is in that room and if John sees her, she will have a stroke,” you warn. 

John nods nervously. “Right. Let’s go.”

“Sherlock,” you call after me. From your cleavage, you remove the box that contains the wedding rings. “For you.”

“I thought you were supposed to hand these over,” I say. 

“I was supposed to ensure they made it here. It’s your job,” you smile. 

I would kiss you, but I am not sure I would stop. 

I follow John to the front of the church where the pastor smiles as we pass. Humming to himself, he prepares his sermon. 

“Lucy brought the tie, didn’t she?” He glances back.

“She stuffed it in my pocket,” I nod. 

“Did anything come of last night?” he asks.

“Nothing substantial. I have a few leads on where to find some current living members of the gang. They move around quite a bit. Someone keeps their money flowing,” I rattle off to realize that John is not really paying attention. 

“Can you believe this?” He is beaming like an idiot. “Me, getting married.”

“We’ve only been discussing it for close to a year - I believe it,” I sigh. 

The day John announced that he was starting a new life with Mary was a day I could not forget. He was leaving my flat and in a way, my life. We would always work together. We would always be partners, but now there was a third. I felt a bit lost until you moved in. You were a poor substitute for John at first. However, you were feistier. Your tongue was sharper, and I could never admit that I was amused by that. You were more pleasant looking in a dressing gown though I never paid attention to the female form until I could see the outline of yours through that silky fabric.

His face falls serious. “I hope you know this happiness one day.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Marriage?” God, not another one.

“Not necessarily. Just finding a soulmate,” he says dreamily.

I glance over at him staring into the distance. “I don’t believe in the notion of a soulmate.”

“I don’t mean ‘the one’. Just someone you cannot live without. I know it means opening yourself in ways you could not imagine, but I hope one day that you do.”

I blink a few times. I have not attended many weddings, but it is apparent that they make everyone a bit dewey. First Mrs. Hudson and now John. Thankfully, you seem to have your head on straight. I do not detect that you are hiding a secret daydream of your wedding day. Then I remember that you were once planning a day just like this one until I crossed a room to kiss you. That changed the course of both our lives. 

The church fills with nameless faces of friends and relatives. Molly and Lestrade come together, but are not together. They stand beside each other looking awkward. I toy with the notion that perhaps they were two broken hearts that found solace in one another. Molly’s eyes catch on mine and she offers a small wave. Maybe not.

It seems to take forever for the whole affair to begin. John shifts his weight nervously, his head turning to the back of the church where Mary will enter. The music starts and everyone stands. 

“Sherlock,” John whispers and nods to the back of the church.

There you are, sauntering down the aisle with a small bouquet of pastel roses. Your eyes fix on mine, and you wink. I feel flush and my stomach tumbles. This setting is surreal with so much normality and tradition. If emotions were electric, London would be seen from space. I am not used to this, and for the most part, it puts me on edge. You are the calm in this electrical storm. The corners of my mouth turn up watching you near. I look forward to showing my appreciation for that dress later tonight in the privacy of our flat. 

Mary follows - I don’t see what all the fuss is about. She is hidden by a maelstrom of lace and white which quite frankly blanches her complexion. However John’s face illuminates the moment she is visible. I wonder if my face does that when you are near. 

Shaking my head, I am being ridiculous. I am allowing all this romantic jargon to cloud my head. We are above all this. John and Mary are getting married, but they have not been through hell and back like we have. He has not held vigil at her hospital bed wondering how he will go on if she dies. 

The service is painless for the most part and is over fairly quick. There is a kiss and much applause. I attempt to avoid gazing at you through the ceremony. My head feels fuzzy and you will most certainly read it incorrectly. I notice Lestrade glaring daggers at me while he ogles at you. It’s been well over a month. He should be over this by now. 

John and Mary join arms to walk out of the church as Mr. and Mrs. Watson. Instead of offering my arm, which is customary, I offer my hand to you. You look surprised like I hold out a dead fish. When you move to hold my hand, I thread my fingers through yours. You look stunned at the overtly intimate gesture. 

“Problem?” I smile.

“Sherlock?” you tease.

As we pass Lestrade, I cannot wipe the self-satisfied grin from my face. Sherlock, the freak, got the girl. Not that he ever wanted the girl before, but it is sweet justice for suffering all those months when he had you. 

The people that know us look a bit shocked as we make our first public appearance as partners. 

As we join John and Mary at the steps, you ask, “Was that for Lestrade?”

“That was for me,” I answer seriously. “And you.”

*  *  *  *  * 

** Lucy **

Mrs. Hudson and I chat about the ceremony on the way to the Inn where the reception is being held. You stare out the window clearly bored by the entire process. If I had any fantasy that would be us in years, they have faded away. 

While Mrs. Hudson talks, I think back you taking my hand in church. Such a public declaration. I can’t help it think that it was for Greg’s benefit. While you can be sweet, you are not above being petty to prove a point. You want Greg to know that we are together despite the odds. 

I would resent the act if you did not rest your hand on my knee as we ride in the car. While Mrs. Hudson approves, I think it still disarms her to see you this way.

John and Mary stand in the entry way having their photo taken. We stand to the side and watch. You wander off to find something more engaging. 

John comes over as Mary and the photographer look over the photos on the back of a rather large camera. 

“I was thinking of scrapping the wedding party photos. I can’t imagine that going well with Sherlock,” John suggests.

“I think that is a wise call. Trying to get him to not look bored will be difficult. And if he uses the creepy smile, well, who needs to capture that for eternity?” I agree. 

“I told her I would talk it over with you.” He looks back to his new wife.

“Congratulations, by the way.” I hug him. 

“Thank you,” he beams. “It feels like it was a long time coming. It was a long year.”

I sigh reflectively. “Yes it was.”

“You look lovely by the way. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it sooner,” he smiles.

“Please, you were busy. Now you can relax and have some fun,” I say.

“Where is he?” He looks over his shoulder. 

“Could not have gone far. I’ll keep him from the parents, don’t worry.”

“Greg’s here, so he’ll be hover near you anyway,” John states. “As long as he and Greg can play nice. Work has been better lately, but….”

“I saw that he came with Molly,” I muse. 

“Maybe that will happen,” he offers.

“I just want him to happy, John.” I never wanted to hurt Greg. Letting him go was truthfully the best thing I could do. He didn’t need to be bonded to a woman who deep inside wished he was someone else. I’d like to think that I would be strong enough to walk away before I even started looking at churches. Given how weak I feel around you sometimes, I question my inner strength. 

“I’m being paged,” John says before he rejoins Mary. 

You reappear at my elbow. “Are we waiting for this?”

“No, I managed to get us out of it.”

“Thank heavens,” you sigh gratefully. 

We stand quietly and watch the guests stream into the Inn. You stand close enough for me to feel your heat, but do not touch me. I think you are just stealing glances down my dress, to be honest. We’ve been having sex for a few months now, and you still have the libido of teenager. I guess that happens when you spend most of your sexual peak avoiding or ignoring it. 

“When can I remove this?” You tug at your tie. 

“Probably sometimes after dinner when you see people dancing,” I say. 

“Do we do dinner now?” you ask.

“Have you never been to one of these?” I turn around.

“Only as part of an investigation. Never as a guest or participant,” you answer proudly. 

I can only imagine you as a wedding crasher. “We have the first dance, the toast and dinner. You should be in the clear after that - unless John removes his first.”

You let a heavy sigh. I feel your hot breath on my neck and ear. I shudder uncontrollably. Why have you been the only man to have this affect on me?

You notice the goosepimples on my shoulders.  You lean closer and your suit jacket is rough on my back. I feel your hand on my hip. 

“Lucy, am I giving you chills?” Your voice thick with desire rumbles in my ear.

It would be pointless to lie to you. You can tell by inflection, the rate of my breathing. The goosepimples themselves have given me away. “Maybe.”

However, I know that you are equally aroused without turning around. Your fingers grip my hip as your breathing quickens slightly. 

John and Mary are finally finished with photos. “Are we ready to go in?”

We answer “yes” and “no” alternately. 

It’s warm room with a huge fireplace and rustic candelabras. They lead us to a table set with four place settings beside the fireplace.

“We thought this would safe,” John pulled out a chair for Mary. 

Keeping Sherlock away from a large table of wedding guests? It is very smart. Seeing John being chivalrous, you decide to copy him and pull out my chair for me. We should double date more often. 

“May I have the bride and groom to the dance floor please?” a smooth voice booms across the room. 

You lean closer. “Is this the first dance?”

“Yes. They will start the dance. Depending, they might invite the wedding party to join. Sometimes the parents to join as well,” I whisper.

Your back stiffens as you sit beside me. You look like a fish out of water. 

From my purse, I produce a few note cards and slide them to you. 

“What is this?” You frown.

“Your speech.” I say.

“Seriously?” You raise an amused eyebrow.

“Yes, stick to the script. This is what we went over the other night. Don’t attempt to speak from the heart. It never comes out the way you intend,” I whisper.

You roll your eyes, but know I am right.

John and Mary sway slowly as the DJ begins Roxy Music’s “More Than This”. Both have smiles on their faces. I glance to you. Deep inside, I know this is odd for you. John had been by your side for years. Marriage could mean children, and John can’t be chasing criminals with a pregnant wife or baby at home.

“At this time, we ask the Best Man and Maid of Honour to join the bride and groom,” the DJ calls. 

“Sorry,” I mouth. 

You stand and button your jacket. With your hand on my lower back, you guide me to the dance floor. As we pass a table, I see Greg’s face pale and he glances down. I know it is too soon for him to see you and me together. 

Pulling me close, your eyes lock on mine. I’m pressed to you. If there is any doubt about us, it is quite clear now. I feel your heart thunder against my hand. The corners of your mouth are slightly turned upward. The crinkles around your clear eyes around suggest the hint of a smile. I’m not sure if you keep your eyes on me for reassurance or affection. 

I barely notice that the rest of the guests have been invited to join us in the dance. You don’t acknowledge their presence - you stay fixed on me. 

“It’s been awhile since we danced,” your voice rumbles against me.

I frown trying to think when we’ve ever danced. 

“The ball?” You cock an eyebrow. 

“That’s right,” I smile. 

That night seems years ago. Your breath on my face. My heart racing under your touch. I dismissed it to the champagne. I had no idea we would wind up here. 

“I’m surprised you remembered,” I say.

“I think you’d be surprised with how much I recall when it comes to you,” you say in my ear. 

I look up into your eyes. I want to brush the errant curl off your forehead, like the night of the ball. I restrain myself in front of  of all these people even if I can touch that curl whenever I wish. Your lips purse like you want to kiss me. 

Just then, the song ends and DJ announces that it is time for the toast. Your fingers wrap around mine to lead me back to our table. After helping me to my seat, you grab the note cards. Your eyes skim over my words before you toss them to the table. Of course you dismiss them. 

You grab the champagne flute and cast a gaze to me then John and Mary. I see your gears turning. 

“When I met John, he was a bit lost. While he would debate me if he could, I have the floor. I would say that I helped him find his true potential.” You look back to John rolling his eyes. “And he would say that that he gave me a heart.”

There is a smattering of laughter. Your eyes sweep across me. “He might be right.” You pause for a moment. “John and I have been through quite a bit together. And for a long time, he was my only friend. I was understandably distraught when he met Mary.”

A moan emits from your pants pocket. John frowns and looks at you. He knows who that is. Your face remains unchanged. 

Continuing your toast, rage rings in my ears. I don’t even your words. It takes me a moment to regain focus. 

“Mary has been the only woman who tolerates my intrusion into John’s life whether it be assistance on Christmas Ever or midnight research. Mary, you won’t find a more devoted, trustworthy man. You are very lucky he chose to bond his life to yours.”

Another moan. There is whispering and giggles among the room. There is no reaction from you. John sends me a sympathetic smile. I didn’t dare tell him about the flowers on his wedding day. He didn’t need to calm my fears today. 

“Let’s toast to John and Mary, may you have a long and happy marriage. And John, may live long in general considering Mary’s cooking.” You raise your glass. “Cheers.”

Mary had been smiling until your final words. 

We all raise our glasses. It feels as though my dress would singe off my burning skin. Of course she would interrupt a perfect day. I finish my champagne in two swallows. 

“Is dinner served now?” You lean closer.

“Yes Sherlock. Now we have dinner,” I snap. 

You know exactly why I’m upset but say nothing to calm my nerves. I know just moments ago, you held me tight in your arms. I know you made references to your newly found heart. Yes, you held my hand in public sparking whispers and looks. Sherlock is in a relationship. 

But I also know that you have not declared that you are in love with me. You have not discussed a future beyond the next or week. You have not invited me into the inner sanctum of your room. And you have not stopped talking to that sodding woman.  

*  *  *  *  *  *  

** Lucy **

Halfway through dinner, you lose the tie. Unbuttoning your shirt, you sigh and pant as if you’ve had a noose around your neck for hours. Upon seeing yours removed, John whips his off as well. There are no other moans through dinner, however the damage is done. If she’s playing with my head, she’s very successful. Since we are at a wedding, I slap a smile on my face and do my best to be jovial. However, I want to grab the phone and toss it against the wall. 

You lean close to describe the guests in the room. This is how you have fun at a wedding. As more people get up to dance, you are enjoying yourself - for you. The only way you could have more fun is to spot a murderer among them. 

Luckily, I don’t care for most dancing. I’ve been told that I’m adept and not too bad. There has not been enough wine consumed for me to think I’m Lady of the Dance.

I get another drink because, quite frankly, I need a break from your rapid fire deductions. 

“You look really lovely,” Molly says. 

I have no idea why she always looks embarrassed all the time. She wears a purple cocktail dress that is rather plain compared to the tight dress she wore for the engagement party. It’s clear she not trying to impress anyone, she wants to be comfortable.

“Thank you. Mary did a splendid job picking this out. I love that color on you,” I say.

She blushes. “Oh this? I got it on clearance.”

“That makes it better.” I smile. 

I want to ask if she and Greg are seeing each other. There is no way to tactfully ask that. If I were you, I could be blunt and seem uninterested. I didn’t want to give Molly the impression that I was jealous. I only want his happiness and know it was not meant to be with me.

“Nice ceremony,” she continues. “Mary looks beautiful.”

“She does and John looks so happy.” I nod, feeling a bit trapped.

“The toast wasn’t as awful as I suspected,” she giggles.

“We were hopeful that he wouldn’t completely be himself,” I smile. She must understand. 

She casts a longing look in your direction. “I’m happy he’s with you.”

I was hoping to avoid this. I know she fancies you - despite the obvious. Is she like Irene - just waiting for this to fizzle out so that she could move in now that we all know you are an active heterosexual?

My mouth just hangs open. My brain searches for a proper response.

“I mean, you are good for him. He’s nicer with you. Well, nice for Sherlock, that is.” She blushes.

I know exactly what she means by that. Not many would describe you as ‘nice’ including myself. 

Oh God, not now.

“Hello Greg.” I turn around. 

He smiles sheepishly. “You look beautiful.”

I swallow the hard lump in my throat. “Thank you. You look wonderful too.”

And he did. I remember what attracted me to him in the first place. He was so kind after the explosion at my office. It was easy to be swept away after dating such knobheads. 

An awkward silence settles between us. A part of me doesn’t want you to see us talking - I know how you can get. On the other hand, a bit of your own medicine would make me feel better.

“Look Greg, about Sherlock….I should have told you right away,” I say. 

“Told me what and when?” he asks.

Ah, when indeed. Am I truthful or kind?

“When things developed….after we ended,” I blatantly lie. “I didn’t realize it was happening until it was.” 

That part is true. I knew you had emotions that went deeper than flatmate - friend even. I never expected you to act upon them. 

He smiles sadly. “In order for a marriage to work, you need to be the right person for each other. You were mine….I just wasn’t yours.”

That slices into my heart. 

“I still care about you. I might even still love you,” he says, taking my hand. “And I hope you find the right person for you because it’s not Sherlock.”

It feels like a slap in the face. My doubts are creeping around me without his words.

“You don’t know him,” he presses on.

Are these words from a jealous ex or something to heed?

“I know he’s not easy and…” I start.

“Have you discussed the drugs?” he interrupts.

“I know of them. Mostly bits from others.” My eyes dart away. “I know he’s clean.”

Greg nods. “He is now and has been for the better part of nine years.”

The lump reforms in my throat. “Are you referring to the ‘lost years’ as John refers to them?”

“Not much is known about that time period and he doesn’t talk about it,” Greg says.

I nod numbly. Am I strong enough for all this?

“And there were some questionable nights when he thought Irene Adler had been killed years ago.”

I feel sick now. I had a feeling that she did have significance at one point. John calls them Danger Nights. I don’t recall that there’s been one since I moved in, but to know that she might have caused a few frays my nerves more.

“Thank you.” I nod numbly. “I will consider what you’ve said.”

“I want you to know that I’m not being vindictive. Somewhere under all the circuitry, Sherlock has a heart. I’m not sure it’s enough for two people when it’s barely enough for one. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“And if I continue this, you think it’s possible?” I ask.

“Inevitable.” His voice is grave. “Just look after yourself. If you need anything, I’m here - as a friend.”

I bite my lip. You’ve returned from wherever and see us. 

Thank you. You’ve given me some things to digest.” My head spins. My glass of wine is empty and I need another. 

I slip away to the bar only to be met there by your scrutinizing eyes. 

“Is everything all right?” You press. “You look upset.”

You are a man, but you are Sherlock. I wonder which side will come out as I paste a nonplussed expression on my face.

“I feel guilty. I had to lie and say nothing happened until after I broke it off,” I whisper. 

You eye me for a moment. “He asked?”

“Not in so many words, but we haven’t talked since he found out about us. Tonight was the first time we’ve seen each other,” I say. 

You bite your lip. “Yes, that is awkward. How did he leave it?”

I try to not think about everything I just heard. I won’t be able to lie to you convincingly about this.

“He wished me good luck. He doesn’t think it will last,” I say honestly. 

Your face is a mix of anger and sadness. “That is jealousy speaking. I’m sure he’s hopeful of that.” Your fingers brush my cheek. “As long as you do not believe him.”

The look in your eyes douse my fear immediately. I can’t answer. I want to believe you with my entire being. I hope we prove him - in fact everyone wrong. I know eyes watch us like we are an exhibit in a zoo. The extraordinary Sherlock and his very ordinary girlfriend. 

I return to the earnest look in those azure eyes. “I don’t.”

Your lips press against my temple. “Good.”

We never dance the rest of the night, yet you stay close. You don’t steal away and your phone is quiet. One hand stays on me at all times, whether it’s on my hip or at my back. I can’t tell if it is devotion or possession. 

We go home around midnight. It’s just us in the back of the car. Your fingers entwine in mine as you kiss me tenderly. Your lips don’t leave mine until the car stops in front of our home. Taking my hand, you lead me to my room. I had hoped that tonight would signal a turning point and you would take me to your bed. 

You caress and kiss me. Your movements are slow and thoughtful. Your lips are silent until you climax. 

“Oh yes, Lucy.” You shudder against my neck. “My Lucy.”

With your face buried in my hair, you fall asleep with your limbs draped across me. Soft sighs of contentment escape from your mouth. You sleep best when touching me in some manner. 

Your phone is in the other room. I want to peel you off of me to look at the texts and see who called. There is a bigger part that doesn’t want to know. I breathe in your scent and try to drift off to sleep. 


	30. Post wedding blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes home to find an empty flat.....

** Sherlock **

I slink through the door after a tiring day from data, crimes scenes, autopsies and more data with a pile of files under my arm at two in the morning. You leave one lamp on to guide my way inside. With heft, I drop the files on the desk. The flat is tidy as usual. I walk down the hall to see your door closed. 

Quietly, I sit at the desk to start pouring over the files Lestrade’s lackey gave to me. Lately, he has been cool since finding out about us. Today, he was downright frosty. I expected that his emotions would rule his head. He saw us together, not as friends or flatmates. I’m sure he will calm himself soon enough. If only Molly and Lestrade would turn to one another, it would solve so many problems.

The next time I look up, I see a crack of sunlight breaking through the windows. My eyes burn from staring at police records written in an officer’s scrawl. My neck is stiff from being hunched between a computer and a paper. Suddenly, I feel fuzzy and useless. I will need a few moments of rest to close my eyes and process what my brain has retained in the last 24 hours. 

Achingly, I stand and move toward the hallway. I stop myself before reaching for the door knob. I can only imagine how you would greet me if I attempt to curl around you at the crack of dawn. I neglected to send a text or call yesterday. It’s possible that you will be upset over the lack of communication. 

I need to rid our lives of Irene Adler as soon as humanly possible. I see you tense when my mobile moans. I don’t relish being in communication with Irene, but until I sort out her involvement - I have no choice but to flirt if I need to, answer her calls and remain on her pleasant side. 

Quietly, I turn on my heel. I flop on the Chesterfield and close my eyes. I will rest for an hour or two. Perhaps if I fetch coffee and a scone, you will forgive me for disappearing an entire day. 

Sunlight stings my eyes as I blink awake. The room is flooded with bright light. It must be later than I anticipated. Slowly, I sit up to get my bearings. The flat remains still and untouched from earlier this morning. I expect to see a used mug or folded paper. Looking down the hall, your door remains closed. I shake my head to clear the last vestiges of sleep. I blink my eyes to focus on my watch. It is a little past noon. 

You can’t still be sleeping. Did you rise early and slip out for the day? 

I stand and stretch my stiff back. Running a hand through my mussed hair, I steady myself to enter your room. I envision you sitting on the bed with your arms crossed and face even more cross. 

Softly, I knock on the door. “Lucy?” Nothing. “Lucy?” Silence. I turn the knob and enter an empty room. 

The bed is unmade - not unusual. What does strike me as odd is that my side is untouched from when I rose yesterday. I make out the indentation that I left from the night before. Did you leave undisturbed so I could slip back in? 

The closet door is ajar. Clothes peak out of the dresser drawers. The same collection of dirty laundry collects in the corner of the room - both our clothes. It was as if you evaporated from the bed. 

I pull my mobile out and dial your number.

“Hello, you’ve reached….”

Voicemail. 

Where are you? SH

I take a deep breath. Our past has been so fraught with danger and violence. I pace your room for a few moments. You could be in the tube - there are tons of dead signal areas in there. I glare at my phone sitting on your bed, willing it to buzz or ring. 

I decide to shower and give you time to get see my missed called and text. I try to turn my head while the hot water beats down on my skin. Am I losing valuable time trying to be patient? Am I overreacting while you indulge in lunch or shopping? 

Four hours later, my patience is gone. I stake the parlor and kitchen. Both are exactly the same as the morning of the wedding. If you had been home in the last fews day, there would more traces of you. 

I grab my mobile. 

“Hello, you’ve reached Lucy…”

My heart begins to race.

I press another button. 

“Hello, this is Dr. John Watson. I’m sorry…”

I growl. Another voicemail. 

My fingers dance frantically across my phone. 

Have you heard from Lucy? SH

I pace some more. I do not know the numbers of any of your friends. To be honest, I am not even sure of their names. I could call your mother. Could you be with her? Considering the venom that has spilled from your mouth in regards to her, that is not likely. 

Swallowing hard, I make another call. It rings until it goes to voicemail. 

“This is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade….”

He probably sees my number and tosses his phone into the garbage bin. 

One more time, I dial your number. Voicemail. “Bloody hell, where are you?”

For the first time in years, I feel utterly alone. Mrs. Hudson! 

I rush down the stairs, nearly taking a tumble head first. I pound on the door. 

“Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!”

I hear her amble through her tiny flat. “Sherlock….my stars. Calm yourself.”

She opens the door and I push my way. 

“Sure, come in. Luckily, I am decent,” she clucks.

I wheel around. “Where is she? Where did Lucy go?”

Her eyes widen. “I-I-I….is she not upstairs?”

I cock my head. “Would I ask if she was?”

“When did you last see her?” She blinks.

“Saturday night, the night of the wedding.” I am embarrassed to announce that it has been two full days since I’ve seen you.

“Where have you been?” she asks suspiciously.

I straighten my back. “I was working.”

“I haven’t seen her, darling. I’m sure she just went out for a walk.” She shakes her head. “Did you two have a domestic?”

“No.” I need to think. “Did you hear anything unusual? A lot of footsteps going up and down the stairs? Her screaming?” 

She smirks. “Just the night you came home from wedding, dear.”

It’s Mrs. Hudson’s attempt at a joke. “So you’ve heard nothing out of the ordinary? Have you been home the entire time?”

“No, I had my shopping to do.” Her hand flies to hear chest. “Is Lucy in trouble?”

“I am not sure.” I look down at my phone. “She’s not answering. No one is answering.”

I know where I need to go, where I can’t be ignored. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  

****

“I don’t think he wants you in there,” Donovan calls after me.

“Thank you for your input.” I wave her away as I stalk into Lestrade’s office. 

He looks up from his slice of pizza. “Oh bloody hell. What do you want?”

“Are you ignoring my calls now?” I bark.

“Since I don’t have use for you right now, yes. You looked over the scene yesterday. I have nothing for you to do today.” He keeps munching on the pizza covered with congealed cheese.

“Lucy is missing,” I blurt.

“Missing?” He sits a bit taller. He may hate me, but he still loves you. I need to appeal to his desire to keep you safe. 

“Yes, missing. Did I speak French?” I huff.

“I know French,” Lestrade settles back in your chair. “Did you trying calling her?”

“Went directly to voicemail. She never turns off her phone. She hasn’t answered her text messages. I think something has happened.” 

I see a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “Was there a domestic incident?”

“Considering last we spoke she was moaning my name, I do not think so.” I cock an eyebrow. 

Lestrade springs from his chair. If John were here, he would have been my internal editor. While it feels good to toss it in his face, I know I go too far. 

“Get the fuck out. I’m not here to track down your girlfriend. Clearly she saw the light about you.” His fists clench. 

“She’s in danger… like before. Someone has placed a target on her back,” I shout. 

“How do you know for certain? Are there signs of forced entry? Lucy would not let anyone into the flat after everything she went through. You bolted all the windows. I know that because I tried to open the window of Lucy’s room….after you know…we had sex one night.” He smirks. 

My jaw clenches. He was supposed to help me, not taunt me. 

“If she’s hurt in anyway, you will regret this day,” I promise.

He takes a deep breath. “Was there a sign of a struggle? She’d fight back. Are clothes missing? A bag? Christ Sherlock, did you look for a note even?”

The office spins and smell of grease makes me sick. I blink as I recall the state of the flat. Quiet. Undisturbed. He is right. You would find a way to tell me someone took you from me. Unless that person was you. 

“I can’t believe you all of people failed to miss the easiest of signs,” he smirks again. “Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

I refuse that you would shut down without a word. The night of the wedding, I felt connected with you like I have never felt with any other person. Has emotion has clouded my perceptions? What did I see in the flat? I only could focus on what I could not see - you. 

“Listen, if you go home and find that someone has taken her, credible proof, you have access to all my resources,” Lestrade sits back.

All the way home, I try to think who would take you. Irene? No, she doesn’t like violence and she certainly would not dirty her hands. Her warfare is more of the mind. Did she send you something that made you leave? 

The one true enemy I had you killed. I know he is dead; I made sure of it. Could one of his associates have done this? I know that every inch closer I get to the center of the ring, the more people I anger.

I tear into the flat, still quiet. Your room is untouched from earlier. Long shadows of late day darken the corners. It’s been eight hours since I realized you were gone.

I close my eyes and calm myself for a moment, remembering that panic will not help me figure how you left. I open the dresser drawers. It would appear clothes are missing. Are they just dirty laundry? Think. 

I recall lying in bed in a post-coital state teasing you about the state of your room compared to the rest of the flat. The drawers were overflowing with clothes. Your closet was stuffed with more. 

My eyes fly open. Some clothes are missing from both the closet and chest. Your bright pink suitcase is among the missing articles. That suitcase holds enough for a weeks worth of clothes. It would appear that you packed in a hurry. If you were moving out, it is not evident. Nothing else is prepared to be moved.

I try calling for the ninth time that day. Still only voicemail. I set about the rest of the house looking for a note or any indication where you’ve gone. I have almost ruled out abduction, but you just leaving makes no sense either. Did you mention a holiday? I search my mind. Certainly, I would remember that. 

I go to my room in case something is left there. For the last month, I have only used this room as an oversized walk in closet. It seems ages since I’ve used my bed. Despite Mrs. Hudson’s insistence in dusting, it is musty. I look down at my bed and cannot recall when I last slept here. I never thought I would ever want to share such space with anyone. I rarely used my own bed as sleep takes up too much wasted time. Lately, settling by your side for a few hours is something I relish. Even if I stare at the ceiling in concentration. Your heat and small sighs provide such peace in everything. 

I dial John again. I know he is on his honeymoon, but I can’t think. Memories flood my head and drown useful thought. It is now eleven at night, and you are gone another night. I sink into my leather chair and press my fingers against my temple so hard it hurts. With a heavy sigh, I know I can’t do this without alone. 

I move aside a few books on the shelves to find a small plastic bag containing what I need to think. I open it with unsteady hands and wonder if I should. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the readers. To those who may know from Tumblr, I am due to give birth to my second daughter any day now. So bear with me as the next few weeks promise to be hectic. I have many chapters (36-37 thus far penned) ready to post. But I need to get on the ball writing more! So stayed tuned!


	31. This cannot be the end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John leaves his marital bed for Sherlock.....

** John  **

I stand on the balcony of the suite overlooking the sea. I wish I could afford something on the southern coast where it is warmer. At least it is sunny and quiet. Mary makes me turn my phone off for the week. 

She comes up from behind me in the fluffy white robe the resort has provided. Our room has mysteriously been upgraded. I have no idea if it was you or Mycroft. Nothing would surprise me, honestly. 

“Are you hungry for breakfast?” Mary asks.

“Starved. I think we should check out that little cafe on the dock. The one we walked by,” I suggest. 

She smiles. “Sounds perfect. I like you when you are relaxed Dr. Watson.”

I give her a squeeze. “How can I not be? We had a lovely wedding - incident free.”

“I was a bit nervous considering the guest list,” Mary sighs. 

“And who was giving the toast. He did fairly well. I few Sherlockisms, but loads better. You should have seen him years ago.”

“You even said he needed to go away for us to happen,” Mary says.

I don’t often like to reflect on the time between you and Mary. Those were dark days indeed. 

“If it led me to this, then I’m glad to have endured it,” I smile. 

“Everyone had such a great time. Even Sherlock looked like he was enjoying himself,” Mary says.

“You know, I used to be worried about Sherlock after we got married. Despite what you think, he does not do alone very well. When Lucy got engaged, I thought it would eventually be the end of him. I was leaving. Lucy was leaving. I was very concerned for his health.” I remember the way your face paled when Greg got down on one knee Christmas Eve. 

“His health?”

“Sherlock does not handle emotions or disappointment. I could foresee many danger nights.” I sigh. “But I have a very good feeling about Lucy and Sherlock. He was….different….in a pleasant way.”

“Danger nights?” She frowns.

“Years before I met him, he had a bit of a drug issue. Greg said it helped him think - or so Sherlock thought. When things get a bit too…..difficult or real…..well, he can slide.” I swallow hard. 

“Have you seen it first hand?” Mary asks.

“Once. It was….scary,” I sigh. “I wonder if it occurred after he disappeared, but no one really knows.And he will never talk about it.”

“Does Lucy know?” 

“I’m not sure how much. It’s really not my place to tell her,” I say.

I have considered telling her so that she can be prepared. I know if something is off with you, I will be the first person she calls. Then and only then will I divulge your past. 

“Well, she should know in case,” Mary states. 

“Hey.” I pull her close. “This is our honeymoon. They are in London. Let’s get some brunch and see where the day takes us.” I kiss her neck.

She chuckles and moves out of my arms. “Okay, Dr. Watson. I’m off to shower.”

I watch her disappear into the bathroom. “Okay, I might join you.”

I turn back to look at the sea again. The scent is invigorating. Perhaps a little shopping today. Tomorrow there is the couples massage. 

The room phone rings. Ah, the confirmation on tonight’s reservation. 

I sit on the edge of the bed. “Hello?”

“Dr. Watson, turn on your phone,” says Mycroft Holmes on the other end. 

“Christ Mycroft, you sent a lovely fruit basket. That’s enough.” Just when I rid myself of one Holmes brother, another pops up.

“You need to turn your mobile on. Sherlock needs you right now,” he says in his usual calm voice. “Lucy has gone missing.”

I rub my forehead. How many times can someone be abducted? “What happened? Who do they suspect?”

“Lucy herself it would appear. I don’t know if there was a row between them, but Sherlock has been tearing up the London streets looking for her ” Mycroft says. 

“You mean that Lucy left? Did he tell you this?” I ask.

“Don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t ask for my help. And he won’t accept it from me. That is why it needs to come from you,” he says.

“Has everyone but me forgotten that I got married a few days ago? Why don’t you send a car for her and instruct her to get in like you do with me?”

“I know she’s on the south coast of England. I’m working on exact location as we speak,” he says.

“Of course you are.” My appetite disappears. 

“Sherlock needs to get out of London. Loads of bad influences there,” Mycroft says cryptically.

“It’s that bad?” My heart stops.

“I’m not sure. I’ve heard reports of erratic behavior and outbursts. It is really in his best interest to stay with Lucy. With you out of the picture…”

“I’m not ‘out of the picture’. I just got married,” I protest. I hate the notion that just because I married Mary that I abandoned you.

“You are no longer available to help him. Lucy has improved him and we need to find out exactly what occurred.” 

“They were fine at the wedding. He was different, but in a good way.”

He draws in a breath. “In the course of this investigation, Sherlock has placed himself in the company of That woman Irene Adler.”

Things become a little clearer. “And Lucy knows.”

“The Adler woman sent flowers to the flat,” Mycroft’s voice is icy with disdain.

I run a hand over my face. I feel responsible in some tiny way. After all, I knew Lucy was insecure and having doubts. At the very least I should have communicated it with you. For her to leave when she clearly loves you, she must have been distraught. I shouldn’t be surprised Irene would do anything to keep you as her plaything. When I get back to London…..

“I fear if this cannot be fixed what will happen to Sherlock,” Mycroft sighs. “Especially if he loses her.”

“What did it before?” I ask. I grab my mobile and turn it on for the first time since we left the reception. 

“Boredom. Youth. In ability to see one’s potential. He was an outcast always but had one friend. Once that friend turned away because of a girl, well, idle hands make the devil’s work. My brother does not take abandonment and rejection well.” 

It’s possible he refers to me and my marriage to Mary. I never shut you out though. We still work together. If we are going to discuss abandonment…..

I know he also refers to Irene’s false death. I never understood why that bothered you. You never replied to her texts. There was no trace of a relationship. Was it an ego boost or the potential of human contact? Perhaps Irene opened a door for Lucy and that is what has Irene bent on destruction. As if you need help mucking up a personal relationship.

I look to my mobile. 20 missed calls - all from you. There are 13 texts messages. They start out calm enough.

Have you heard from Lucy - SH

Do you have your phone off - SH

Lucy is not answering her mobile either - SH

She must have been abducted again - SH

Went to see Lestrade. Bad idea - SH

Still not answering phone or text - SH

Same for you - SH

Might as well talk to the skull - SH

She left. Bag is gone - SH

Answer your phone - SH

They get increasingly desperate. 

I’m out with the underground network - SH

She’s been gone for over 2 days - no contact - SH

Where is she John - SH

What did I do - SH

The last text was over six hours ago.

“What do you need me to do?” I ask. 

* * * * * * 

John Watson

***  *  *  *  *  ***

**John Watson**

The price for saving my friends life is an extra week at the resort. Mycroft sees to it. After I show the texts and missed calls to Mary, she understands why I need to go.

“Did Lucy say anything to you?” I ask.

“No, she seemed so happy. How long do you think she planned this?” Mary frowns.

I shake my head. “I don’t know. Mycroft says nothing but a bag was packed. He said Sherlock was in a terrible state.”

“How long will you be gone?” She asks. 

“I’m not sure. I take the first ferry to Newhaven to meet Sherlock tomorrow,” I say.

You sound a bit strung out when I called. 

“Where have you been?” You rage.

“Uh, my honeymoon,” I answer simply. 

“Mycroft called you,” you growls. 

“He is worried about you,” I say. “All he did was tell me to turn my mobile on. I saw all your messages and called you. What do you need?”

“What about your precious honeymoon?” You snip. 

“I’ve talked to Mary. What do you need?” 

While I board the ferry, Mycroft tracks Lucy to Brighton. After that, the trail goes cold. Has she also gone to France? Did something happen after she arrived in Brighton? 

I spend the trip preparing myself for a Sherlock I have never encountered. You could be coked out of your head and hard to control. How exactly do I clean you up before you see Lucy? If she is still on the fence about leaving you, that would finish her off. Then we could lose you forever. 

I have four hours.

You are hard to miss on the docks as you pace the ferry landing with your hands clasped behind you. Your eyes search the crowd for her. I need to get you some food. By your sallow complexion, your last dinner might have been at my wedding. 

Your eyes catch mine. They are cold and lips in a thin line. I have a feeling we might not be getting lunch first.

“John, thank you for coming,” you say, a hint of embarrassment in your voice.

“Of course.” I notice your eyes darting slightly.

There doesn’t seem be any indication you’ve had a hit of anything recently. Unfortunately, I never experienced you mid-high. By the time you dragged yourself home, you were crashed and irritable. I know what abuse looks like in a normal person, but you are far from normal.

With a nod, you lead me through the throng of people to a car waiting on the street.

“Mycroft sent a car,” you say over your shoulder.

“I have no doubt that he did. It’s nice to have one at your disposal,” I comment.

You wave your hand dismissively. You loathe your brother’s help as it makes you feel useless. Deep down, we both know that you cannot handle this investigation. It’s too close to your heart which you have never admitted to owning. 

“You brought a bag?” You eye my duffel.

“I wasn’t sure how long this would take.” I shrug.

“And Mary is fine with that?” Your voice is flat.

“She wants what is best for you. This is not a simple case I’ve been called to,” I say carefully. 

We climb in the warm car. Your knee bounces distractedly.

“Where to?” I ask.

“Brighton. That’s where Mycroft tracked her to.” You stare out the window.

I’m not sure what to say to you. I’m afraid to ask any more questions. You are a pressure cooker waiting to explode. I think I can see your skin crawl. We say nothing as we drive to Brighton. You can tell that I’m watching you carefully. Every so often, you roll your eyes and sigh. My presence was supposed to calm you but it seems to be having the opposite effect. Something is not right with you. Maybe it’s not just cocaine but a mixture. 

Lucy was sighted in a pub with another female. The she was placed in a market around the corner from the pub. We hit every store, inn and pub with her photo from my wedding from my phone. You get more frustrated and irritable as the day drags on. I get the sense that if it was someone else, you would have solved the puzzle by now. 

As the sun sets, I convince you to go get some dinner. 

“I’m not hungry,” you growl. 

“Maybe not, but if you pass out from low blood sugar when we do find Lucy, you will regret not eating. Have some chips, but eat something,” I plead. 

Begrudgingly, you relent. “We’ve been all over. She’s not here.”

“We’ll find her,” I say.

I am afraid what happens then. You are hurt and never pleasant under those circumstances. When you found out about Mary and how serious things were between us, you didn’t speak to me for two weeks. It was a slice of heaven and hell. You never admitted to feeling hurt or betrayed, but I saw it. I see it now. 

You insist that we stay in the same inn Lucy was spotted. I know you hope that she returns while we have dinner. 

You excuse yourself to freshen up in the room and order me to get you something you’ll ignore. I am so starved I do not notice how long you’ve been gone. I call Mary and report that I am here overnight. I hate that it is our honeymoon and she is sleeping alone in a posh suite while I sleep above a pub on an old mattress. 

When you return, I can tell immediately what your idea is freshening is. There is a fresh sheen of sweat on the back of your neck and forehead. Your eyes dart rapidly like you cannot focus. There is a blush to your cheeks - curious for someone who has not eaten in days. 

“Did you order food?” You ask tossing yourself in the chair opposite me. 

“I did.” I lean closer to look for traces of powder. Or did you inject? “I ordered a burger and a chicken curry. I figured you’d choose one and I would eat the other.”

“Fantastic. Listen, I was thinking about tomorrow….”

Your legs taps under the table incessantly. 

I slam down my pint. “Tell me you didn’t. How is that going to help you? What were you thinking?”

You draw back, a bit surprised by outburst. “What are you on about?”

I lower my voice. “Drugs. We’ve been through this. Now you want to drag Lucy into it? How does that rubbish help you?”

“Drugs?” You raise an eyebrow angrily. You whip off your jacket and tear at the sleeves on your shirt. I brace myself for the track marks. You reveal two nicotine patches on each arm. “It’s a four patch problem, John.”

I slump in my chair. “So, you aren’t doing coke?”

You cock your head as if I’m daft. “Is that what you think? You think that is what is hindering my process?”

“No, I think your emotions are doing that. But I know in times of desperation you’ve looked for ‘help’,” I say.

“I can’t say the thought didn’t cross my mind. Right now, I can’t think and I must think. I need to know what’s going on with her. How we went from the night of your wedding to this moment.”

I see the fear and desperation in your eyes. “Coke would not help.”

“I know that. And it certainly wouldn’t help when I do find her. She would completely close me off if I charge at her in a drug addled rage. I couldn’t risk that,” you say. 

“No wonder you are here. Did Mycroft tell you I was using?”

“He wasn’t absolutely sure, but he did suspect.”

You roll your eyes. “I wish he would get a hobby.”

“He cares. In fact, we all do,” I say as our plates arrive. “Which one do you want?”

Your body is turned to gaze out the window. “I’ll take the burger.”

After the server drops our plates and is off to get us each another pint - you could use a depressant with the amount of nicotine coursing through you. You look to your dinner then mine. 

“Go ahead,” I sigh. If it means you eat something, I don’t care.

You switch the plates, yet pilfer my chips to dip in your curry. Your attention switches from the window to the food. 

You shake your head. “Drugs….”

“Nicotine is a drug,” I point out.

“Compared to cocaine or heroin, hardly,” you sniff.

“When you have four patches on, it’s hard to argue your point. Your heart will explode. When was the last time you used them?” I ask.

“The last time Lucy was abducted,” you say.

“And coke?”

You look away. “Christmas Eve.”

I knew you were upset, but I didn’t realize it was a true danger night.

You look back. “It was just that night.”

“Take off two of the patches,” I demand.

Your jaw is set defiantly, but you roll up your sleeves and remove a patch from each arm. “They weren’t helping. They just made me thirsty.”

Leave it to you to make it seem like your idea anyway. I will have to message Mycroft later to inform him that as dire as things are, they are manageable for the moment.

You rub your temples. “I wish I could understand. I can see motives in murders and cheaters. I don’t understand this.”

I lay my napkin across my lap. “I might have some insight.”

“You?” You raise your eyebrows.

“Well, a theory really. Your involvement with Irene is becoming a problem,” I say.

“I’ve told her that it is for the case. I have repeated that I don’t want anyone else,” you implore.

“Ever heard the term ‘actions speak louder than words’?” I ask.

You give me that look - the one where you think I’m being thick.

“During my bloody wedding that woman contacted you!”

“The text messages.” You rub your chin.

“Yes! I heard it. Lucy heard it. Christ, we all heard it!” I wave my hands. “But more importantly, Lucy heard it. You didn’t see her face. I did. Did you talk about it?”

“I want Irene out of my life too, but she’s connected to this somehow. Lucy needs to be strong…”

“She puts up with you.” You give me a wounded look. “She is strong. No, this is about you learning to be in a relationship.”

Your eyes turn to the window then back to me. “This is my fault then?”

“I heard about the flowers,” I say.

“Did Lucy tell you?” 

I shake my head.

“Mycroft? Does he watch my every move?” You sigh. 

“How did Lucy take the flowers?” 

“She wasn’t pleased. This has to be more than just Irene.” You shake your head.

“Sherlock, one thing you need to remember about women is that what you find small, a women thinks the world of it. You need to learn a way to communicate with her.”

You think for a moment. The sweating has stopped finally. Your breathing has evened and every movement seems slower and more thoughtful.

“Intercourse is method of communication,” you offer.

“That’s not how women see it.” I chew on my burger.

“They see it purely for the gratification?” You frown.

“No, they use it for connection, but they don’t think we do,” I explain. “And calling it intercourse doesn’t help.” You look absolutely confused. I cannot believe I have left my marital bed to give you sex education. “It sounds cold and clinical.”

“Sex is better? Or shagging?” 

I nod. “Actually, yes. It is better. Look, if you feel connected while being intimate, tell her. Women like to hear those words. It reaffirms what they think.”

“But you said actions are louder than words,” you say.

I run a hand over my face. “You need to do both and you need to learn when to use what.”

“How does anyone understand this?” You growl.

“You better over time. It’s unfortunate that you have to learn this all in your thirties.” I move my chips to your plate. You eye the chicken suspiciously, figuring the potato and chips are safe.

“Relationships are impossible,” you grumble.

“Not impossible, but they aren’t easy. You need to think about if it is worth it to continue. If it’s too hard or you don’t want to put in the effort, then it’s time to let her walk away. Maybe she sees your frustration. Maybe she thinks she’s doing you both a favor,” I say softly.

You are horrified. “It was easier to think she was taken. I could solve that.”

“You could control that and this you can’t.” I sit back and feel satisfied that I’ve educated the great Sherlock Holmes in something he doesn’t comprehend or excel at.

Silence falls over the table. Your fingers press into your temples. 

“I need her, John. I can’t explain why. These past few days have been some of the darkest I’ve had in awhile. Maybe I didn’t communicate well enough. I thought the physical spoke volumes.” 

You look positively distraught.

“We will find her and you can talk.” I know Lucy will listen. I pray we find her in time. “But Sherlock, if this is something you really want…if you want her in your life permanently, you can’t do what you did a few years ago. You cannot leave her without a word You don't do that to her.” 

“I know and I won't.” Your voice is surprisingly soft. You look out the window. “Now I know what it feels like.”

 


	32. When it's over, we still have to clean up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John find Lucy

**Sherlock**

After two pints, my heart stops racing. I know Mycroft sent John here to help, but I feel more conflicted than before. His words tumble over and over in my head. 

I excel at many things. In fact, I would declare most things. This - I’m completely out of my depth. If you left signs of strife, I missed them completely. When working on a case, my focus on the details must be sharp. I have no time for personal relationships. I thought you understood this. You have lived with me for close to a year. I can’t be concerned with being domesticated and home in time for dinner. My life is my work. If I don’t have that, what do I have?

I could blame John for this debacle. He insisted that you were the perfect flatmate. Did he see something in us that we did not? Even from that first encounter? That’s unlikely. John is smart but not that clever. I cannot help but think that he was looking at his replacement in every way when he saw you. He could see that you were different.

I stretch out on the hard mattress. I can feel the germs and mites around me. It might be the first time I’ve reclined since you went missing.

I miss you and I hate it. Caring is a huge disadvantage as Mycroft said years ago. When I let my heart to intercede my head, disaster follows. I once let Irene play me and cause an international incident. If my head wasn’t so hazy with thoughts of you, I could have seen the danger looming around you. I could have prevented Moriarty. I would not have shot you.

I close my eyes. The scars that bind us. The one in your side is now dark pink and raised from the rest of your alabaster skin. I have memorized all its ridges and curves with my fingertips. That horrific day, we became one. 

I roll over to stare at the window. Below bar patrons holler and laugh. It is past closing time. 

If I let you slip away, you will move on. Perhaps you will find the person that knows how to give you what you need without you asking for it. What becomes of me? I cannot go back to what I was - a machine - John once called. I’ve experienced too much. The pleasure of sex and connection. Yes, I can find a willing body to take to bed. I can find sexual gratification in an empty vessel and pretend she is you. 

The thought turns my stomach. I don’t want to be intimate with anyone else. Intercourse is not about the climax, it’s the sensation and connection. The room, the furniture, the position or angle matters little. All that matters is that it is with you. It’s been days without it, and the withdrawal from your warmth is harder than any substance I have retreated from. There are times when I feel addicted to the feel of your body against mine. I could lose myself forever in your curves and sighs. Even with the most powerful drug, I never felt as high as I feel after being with you. 

I roll back over to stare at the water stains on the ceiling. The roof was replaced two years ago, but the owners never fixed the damage below. 

There is one thing that can return me to the machine I once was. I was offered it one night as I searched the London underbelly. A small plastic packet filled with the fine substance I had turned to for years. It cleared out the other voices so I could focus.  I shoved my hands deep into my pockets to resist the urge to turn on my head and off my heart. I knew it was a risk to yield to it. Instead, I walked away so fast my legs burned. I wanted to put as much distance between me and that as possible. 

My phone moans from the night table. No doubt, she has heard you are missing. I blink to see the screen. 

I have information. Let’s have dinner - Irene

I resist the urge to smash my mobile against the wall. Irene has been playing a dangerous game with your head. There could be more that you have not told me. If she is what has come between us, I will destroy her completely. It will make the near beheading look merciful. 

There’s a banging on the door. My eyes flutter to the room suddenly brighter. I could not have slept more than a few hours. My arms wrap around a pillow as if it were you. How pathetic.

I sit up and rub my eyes.

“Sherlock!” John’s voice is desperate on the other side. 

“Come in.” I run my fingers through my hair. 

“Mycroft called. I have an address. Your phone went to voicemail this morning.” He squints. 

I look to the floor where my mobile lies in a few pieces. “Mine is broken. I’ll need to replace it.”

“Did she call?” John’s eye widen.

“Yes, but not the she you are thinking of.” I swing my legs off the bed. “So Lucy has been located?”

His eyes are still on the remains of my mobile. “She’s staying with a friend in Eastbourne…not far from here.”

I nod, ready to strap on my shoes and get you. 

“Um Sherlock, you should take a shower,” John says.

“Here?” I wrinkle my nose. I figure that I will need decontamination after staying here last night.

“Yes, here. Or we can find an inn in Eastbourne, but you look a fright. Not your best look.”

He is right. I haven’t showered since I discovered you were gone. As much as I loathe the thought of getting naked in this place, I don’t want to put you off either. Last night, I consider letting you walk out of my life thinking it is the easiest for the both of us. After all, relationships are difficult. That solution is not acceptable to me. I have concluded that your place is with me. 

My shower gives John enough time to get breakfast to go. He knows not to order anything for me. I need the car ride to think of what I plan to say. I had hoped that the caffeine would aid me in organising my thoughts. Digging into my pocket, I pull out the plastic bag that contains my nicotine patches. John snatches them out of my hand

“I need them. I’ll only use two,” I beg.

“They make you moody and on edge. That’s really not the Sherlock you want before Lucy.” He tucks them into his coat. 

I huff. “I do have a right to be cross with her too, don’t I? She left without a word.”

John nods warily. “Yes, perhaps.” 

I turn to glare at him. 

He takes a steady breath in. “If you go in all hotheaded, you will lose. You are going to need the patience of Job on this one.”

I turn my glare to the window. It could be a leftover from yesterday’s patches, but I feel irritable. I understand why it took John so long to forgive me. This is different. You and I are intimately involved. Unless you received a letter or phone call telling you to clear off or I’d be killed - I cannot see an excuse I would willingly accept. 

I’m so wrapped in my script that I don’t realise that we’ve stopped. A row of house stretch along the shore - all summer cottages. Only a few have cars parked outside as it is the off season. This one has a white sedan parked by the back door. 

My heart races in my brain. I feel too paralyzed to leave the car. 

“Are you ready?” John asks.

I stare at the small house. It feels large and looming knowing my fate is behind the wooden door.

“I’ll go with you,” he offers.

I nod. When this is over, I have to find a way to thank him. He’s been pulled from his honeymoon to help me sort my own domestic affairs. Only a true friend would sacrifice so much. 

I swallow hard. “Okay. I’m ready.”

*  *  *   *  * *  *  *

  


**Lucy**

I’m in Rachel’s kitchen when I hear the commotion at the front room.

“Where is she?” A voice bellows. 

No, it couldn’t be. Then again…..

“Who?” Rachel asks.

“Lucy!” I hear the impatience in your voice

I come around the corner. You glare down at Rachel with fire in your eyes. Upon sensing me, your gaze switches. Relief washes across your face when you see me.

“Sherlock, what are you doing here?” After a few days, I figure that you were secretly relieved I slipped away without fanfare or were too busy notice. 

“I could ask the same of you.” Anger edges into your voice. You step around Rachel who blocks the doorway.

“Make yourself at home,” she mutters. “Lucy, shall I call the police on this nutcase?”

Your eyes don’t leave mine. God, you look awful. Your eyes are red and skin paler than usual.

Behind you, I see John lurking in the doorway. “Hello Lucy.” He gives me a small wave. He turns to Rachel. “I wouldn’t bother with the police. It’s useless with him.”

“What’s he doing here?” I ask you. “He’s meant to be on his honeymoon.”

“Exactly,” you snip. “He was called away to help look for you.”

“What?” I frown. 

“You left without a word. I tried to have all of Scotland Yard looking for you.” You move closer to loom over me.

“Didn’t you get my note?” I ask. It’s becoming clear that you did not.

“There was no note. Did you think I wouldn’t look?” you growl.

“The note I left on the milk. I figured that would be the one place you’d find it.” I should have called. 

Your shoulders slump. “I didn’t look there.” For a moment you are quiet before the storm in your eyes returns. “But I called. I texted.”

“Look at your phone,” I say.

You look sheepish dipping your hand in your pocket. Your phone is in two pieces.

“When did that happen?” 

“Last night,” you answer bitterly. 

Leave it to you to overreact. “John, do you have yours?” 

He hands me his mobile. “Here.” 

I show it to you. “See? There’s no service here.”

You look momentarily defeated. “You could have called.”

I nod. “You’re right. I should have.” 

“What did the note say?” you ask. 

“It said ‘I’m away for a few days on holiday. Give you time to work on your case uninterrupted and give me time to think. Be back in a few days. Yours, Lucy’….or something like that,” I mutter. It is at that moment that I realise you would come looking for me regardless of the note.

You step back like you’ve been slapped. “Think? What do you need to think about?”

I take a deep breath. “My new job offer….in America.”

I see John’s jaw drop. 

“Wait, America? Why would you want to go there?” Fear overtakes rage.

“InfoTech is looking to open an office in New York. I had an interview with them in Brighton on Tuesday. That’s when they told me they wanted me to go to the American office,” I say quietly. This was not how I wanted to discuss this you. I pictured wine and curry while I calmly told you.

“What did you tell them?” You move closer.

“I told them I would think it over. They want an answer next week.”

You close your eyes and bring your hands to your face. “Were you going to discuss this with me at all?”

I nod slowly. “When I returned tomorrow.”

You pace and consider your words carefully. I try to find my own. I thought I would have the trip back to London to think about all this. A part of me felt angry that you didn’t call the house phone. You are Sherlock after all. Finding a needle in a haystack is what you do. 

You stop in front of me. “Do you want to leave? Are you not happy with me?”

“I….I don’t feel that I have you,” I stutter. 

“What? You have me more than anyone ever has.” 

I know now is the time to tell you everything without fear. How can I lose you when I consider walking away?

“Yes, there are times when I feel like I have you. But then you get a text from her, and you’re off. She snaps her fingers and you’re there. While I sit at home and wait for you to come home all wound up from being with her. “

Your lips disappear into a straight line. “I have told you that I don’t want her. She is playing with your head.”

“If you know that, why do you go?” I raise my voice.

“It’s for the case.” Your volume matches mine.

“Exactly. And it is and will always be more important than how I feel.” There I said it. 

“Lucy, these are people that hurt you. I want them to pay. I don’t want you to ever get hurt again.” You plead.

“I killed him, remember?” 

“There are more like him out there. He wasn’t operating alone. For as long as they walk the streets of London, you are in danger.” You straighten your back. “But I guess that’s reason enough to leave England. Your safety.”

“Jesus Sherlock, I want to be with you. I just don’t want to have to beg you to communicate with me!” I throw my hands up.

Your mouth hangs open in a stunned silence. “I thought I was doing all right, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Considering that I have never done this before. You are the first. And it’s not because there weren’t females that tried. I never felt it was important to be close to another person until I met you. And trust me, I tried to stay away. I buried myself in work. I knew this was out of my depth of understanding.” You take a deep breath before continuing. “I knew Greg was a better man for you. What could I offer? Yes, I’m genius but I have no comprehension of how to make another person happy. Yet I wanted to try with you because the more I tried to stay away, the more I couldn’t. Selfishly, you made me….happy. So even though I knew I could make you miserable, I kissed you that day. I was so relieved you were alive and so consumed with guilt that I hurt you. I needed to feel you - to know exactly what Greg had that I never would.”

That was the most you ever said about us. One day we were flatmates and the next we’d shared our bodies. Never once did we ever discuss what it meant to take that path. We just took it silently. 

My head spins. “When did you notice me gone?”

You look down. “Monday afternoon.”

I cluck my tongue. “I left Sunday morning.”

“I was working all day Sunday. There was a crime scene, autopsy…” you say sheepishly. 

“And there will always be that for you,” I sigh.

“Can I not have both?” You look up. “Does it have to be one or the other?”

“You said you were married to your work.”

You rub the back of your head. “I did say that, yes.” 

We stare at one another for what seems forever. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about this on Saturday? Clearly, you had this planned.”

I shift under your scrutinizing eyes. “I was planning to come down Monday night to stay with Rachel.”

She offers an awkward wave as you turn to acknowledge that we are not having this discussion alone. 

“The interview was Tuesday,” I say.

I see your muscles tense again. “When did you decide to leave Sunday morning without a word?”

“Sunday morning. I made the decision Saturday night - after the texts. And after you left Sunday without saying anything, I called Rachel and packed a bag.” I allow the chill to return to my voice. 

“I thought you were taken from me,” you hiss. 

“I left a note! And I would have figured the great Sherlock Homes would have sorted it out without my spelling it out for you!”

“Lucy, I cannot deduce you anymore.” You shake your head violently. “I’m too close. To be quite honest, you have always been a bit of a mystery to me. I can take apart your friend Rachel here. I could tell you what John dreamt last night but I cannot read you. All I see is static around you. You need to communicate with me!” Again, your voice rises above conversational.

“I need to communicate? I told you how I felt about Irene. I tried to convey my insecurity and you shut me down. ‘Don’t worry about it’,” I snarl. “But then, off you run. Just like a typical man.”

You move so close to me, I can your raging breath on my face. “We both know I am far from a typical man, which is why you are with me. I’m not like the others you’ve know. I’m not a placid lapdog like Greg.” Your lips curl to a sneer. 

“I never questioned him,” I blink back tears. Dear God, is this really happening to us?

“No, you questioned yourself. You chose the path never traveled and it’s not always pretty,” you say.

We glare at each other - not sure whether to kiss hungrily or run away. 

John clears his throat and grabs your arm. “Okay….Sherlock, let’s get some air.”

He drags you to the deck with your nostrils flaring. 


	33. The sound of the sea echoes my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What will Sherlock say when he finally finds Lucy?

** Lucy **

After a few minutes of pacing, Rachel suggests I go outside to talk to you. 

“You need to settle this. Either you walk away or you make it work,” she says.

Slowly, I walk outside to see you sitting with your elbows resting on your knees and hands clasped together. Your eyes are the color of blue green ocean as you stare at the tumbling waves. John leans on the railing with his arms crossed. Seems he gave you a-talking to. He sees me and nods. 

As he passes me, he says, “He’s been in hell the last few days. Be easy with him - he’s in a fragile state.” With a squeeze of my arm, he closes the door behind him to give us our privacy. 

Gingerly, I sit beside you on the bench. Your eyes shift to me before they head out to sea again.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I should have talked to you about this before I left. I should have discussed this with you.”

“Why didn’t you?” Your voice is chilly.

“I was afraid you would talk me out of it.”

“So, you want to leave?” I hear the anger creep in your voice.

“No, I don’t. I was….frustrated…and confused. One minute, you were tender and attentive, but the next, I felt like I was dangling. I overreacted.” I hope I haven’t lost you. My heart races knowing that I might have bollocksed this royally. 

The corner of your mouth twitches into a small smirk. “I should have known. It is close to your menstrual cycle.”

I have to chuckle. “Are you always going to track that?”

Your head turns to me. “I’d like to.”

It is an oddly sweet thing to say and it’s so very you.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry if I put you through hell. You were so engrossed in your case; I really didn’t think you would notice me gone until today.”

“Lucy, I sleep in your bed every night. Of course I would notice your absence,” you say. 

I straighten my back. “That’s another thing. Why don’t we ever sleep in your room?”

You blink, surprised. “Your bed is newer and more comfortable. My room feels cold and clinical compared to yours. And yours is the closest.”

“So it’s not some inner sanctum that I can’t cross? I thought it was a metaphor for our relationship,”

You chuckle. “Lucy, I’m not quite that deep. You are welcome in my room anytime, whether I’m there or not. That really disturbed you?”

I nod. “It did. I know it seems like such a trivial thing.”

“I’m learning that men and women see things differently. I knew that from observing people, I just couldn’t apply it to myself,” you sigh. “You will need to spell out all your feelings.”

“I was afraid of losing you. I know that sounds ridiculous coming from a woman who just interviewed for a job in another continent, but if I left first, maybe it would hurt less,” I blurt.

Now your body turns to mine. “Why do you think you will lose me? That I’m in danger?”

“I know you can handle that.” I need to think of a Sherlock way to explain my feelings. “I’m your first intimate relationship. I am afraid that I am just the warm-up act for someone else. Like you would learn what you need from me, then take it to someone else - like Irene. In my head, I had the reason you and her never connected years ago was that you weren’t ready. Now you are, thanks to me. I just opened the door for every woman you wouldn’t look at.”

Your hands swallow mine. “Lucy, you opened the door and closed it behind you. There is no one else I would try for. I am a very selfish person, and it’s hard for me to share anything with someone else. If you walked away, that is it. I don’t want another relationship. It’s you or nothing.”

“I guess I don’t understand what makes me extraordinary.” I shrug.

Your face softens for the first time since you walked through the door. “You are my heart. You are everything I’m not - patient, kind, social, sympathetic. I can illicit information from people when I find it necessary. But by being youself, you illicit emotion and happiness from others. I never needed it until you walked in.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes just holding hands.

“I hate these ‘girl thoughts’,” I grumble. “I dont want to be an annoying needy girlfriend.”

“I hate that term,” you say.

“Well, what else would you use? How do you sum up our relationship?” I look into your face.

I see the gears turning in your head. You consider your words very carefully.

“So much more than just a school yard flirtation. You are everything I deleted years ago seeing no purpose in it. And I still do not understand wanting something so volatile and confusing as love. However I know I can no longer function without it.”

I’m not sure what you are trying to say. I try to translate it in my head. I wish you could speak plainly sometimes.

You take a deep breath. Your face is serious and earnest. I haven’t seen that look since the hospital. “In short, I love and need you. It’s that simple and incredibly complicated. I want you to come home with me where we both belong.”

You lean into me, and your soft lips brush mine. You wait for my reaction. Right now, I just want to smell you. Parting my lips, your tongue pushes past them as your mouth locks on mine. One large hand cradles my face, your thumb sweeping over my cheek. I feel you release the tension of the last few days into me. I savour your taste - I’ve missed it so much. You’ve just told me you love me. You said it first. I can’t stop the tears that fall. When you feel the wetness, you pull away.

“Why are you crying?” Fear creeps into your voice. 

I feel silly. “Because, I’m about to get my period and this what women do sometimes.”

I attack your lips again. God how I missed them and everything attached to them. You stopped your life, and you came for me. 

Your arms wrap around me tightly as if you were drowning I was your lifeline.

I pull away and you look disappointed. My fingers trace those beautiful cheekbones. “I love you, Sherlock.”

“Oh my Lucy.” You pull me to you and bury your face in my hair. 

“How did you find me?” I ask into your neck.

“Mycroft, my other caretaker. He tracked you down,” you murmur into my hair.

“How does he do that?” I muse.

“I don’t think we really want to know.” You tilt my face to yours. “Will you come home with me?”

I nod. You kiss me again as if you long to disappear inside me. We hold each other for what seems like hours. 

 

“Are we back at code green?” John says behind us. 

 

Slowly, we untangle from each other. Your cheeks flush from being caught in an intimate emotional moment. 

You give John a quick nod. “Yes.”

 

“Good. I just let Mycroft know,” he says.

 

I blink from my daze. “We need to get you back to Mary.”

 

“John, give me your mobile,” you say. 

 

“I wish you didn’t shatter yours,” he mutters handing it over to you.

 

You walk into the house as you bring the phone to your ear.

 

“John,” I step forward. “I am so sorry you got tangled in this.”

 

A look of annoyance crosses his face. “Well, timing was bad.” He looks at me and he smiles weakly. “But this resolved sooner than I thought. I’m thankful for that.”

 

“I had to get away, I can’t think straight near him,” I say. 

 

“No one can really. It was the text during the toast, wasn’t it?” he asks.

 

“That and a conversation I had with Greg. He was warning me about getting too involved. All those things together.”

 

John crosses his arms. “What did Greg say?”

 

“He talked about the drugs mostly. Told me that I would get hurt.”

 

“That’s not surprising. Don’t tell Sherlock. Their relationship is strained as it is. I know Greg is looking out for you, but I don’t agree with him.” He looks over his shoulder.

 

“Of course.” I want to ask more about the drugs, but know I need to go to the source. 

 

He leans closer. “Please, please come to me before it comes to this. We almost lost him.”

 

“What do you mean?” I ask.

 

You walk back onto the deck and John moves away. The serious expression on John’s face softens. 

 

“The car is taking you to a helicopter to bring you back to your honeymoon,” you announce triumphantly.

 

“I can take the ferry,” he says.

 

“Mycroft insists on it, as a thank you.” You stand beside me. You place your hand on my lower back. “I promise that 

you will not be disturbed again.”

 

John smirks. “I’m glad I was helpful.” He looks to me. “But he’s yours now. I have an extra week in France, and as much as I love you both, I don’t want to hear from you until I set foot on English soil.”

 

“The car is ready for you,” you say. 

 

I lunge forward to hug John tightly. “Thank you,” I whisper.

 

“We’ll do dinner when we get back.” John nods. He takes your extended hand. “Next time, check the bloody milk.”

 

A smile breaks on your face. “Obviously.”

 

Rachel joins us on the deck. He shakes her hand and thanks her for the hospitality. When he leaves, there is an extra 

spring in his step.

 

“Mycroft paid for an extra week,” you explain. 

 

“He’s the one that called John?” I ask.

 

“Always meddling.” Yet your voice is tender. 

“I guess we should get back to London,” I say. 

 

Rachel steps forward. “Listen, I can’t believe that I’m going to say this, but why don’t you stay here for tonight.”

 

I hesitate, knowing we could use some time alone. 

 

“Thank you, but you don’t have to do that. I’m sure we can get a room at an inn or hotel nearby,” you say. 

 

“No, we have another cottage in the next town over. Take the house for the night,” Rachel suggests. 

 

“Are you sure?” I ask.

 

I know Rachel is not a big Sherlock supporter. She’s held her tongue and told me to do what I needed to do. Deep down, she’s skeptical. You aren’t like anyone I’ve ever been with. I know she’s worried I’ll get hurt. Hell, I have been physically wounded in your company. I can understand why the people in my life would be gun shy. 

 

She offers a warm smile. “Yes. You’ve been pretty miserable here this week and I could use some lighter company. I think you both could use a night away from London.”

 

You step forward and offer your hand to her without my prompting. It’s a very proud moment. Cautiously, she takes it. 

 

“Thank you, Rachel, for that generous offer. I promise we won’t break any furniture.” A smirk tugs at the corner of your lips. “I apologise for storming in earlier.”

 

Your sincerity catches her off guard. It’s true that you are not the Sherlock she met many months ago. You’ve evolved. 

 

A blush creeps across her cheeks. “Well, she’s a good reason for that.”

 

You smile back to me. “Yes she is.”

 

“I’m off to gather some things and I’ll be on my way.” She climbs the stairs. 

 

We are left alone to stare at each other. Suddenly, I feel shy and uncertain. I’m out of my comfort zone of our flat. Though nothing terrible was said and done, I know a trust has been bruised. 

 

“What happened to your phone?” I suddenly remember it being in pieces.

 

“I received a call last night that I did not want,” you say simply.

 

“Blasted telemarketers,” I cluck lightly.

“It was Irene,” you say quickly. “John helped me realise that we were both being played by her. If she does have any involvement or information, I’ll have to get it somewhere else. I will not be toyed with. And I’m not about sacrifice this.”

 

“So, you smashed your phone?” I raise an eyebrow.

 

“I hadn’t slept so I was irritable.” You wrap your arms around me to hold me close. “I’ll finally rest tonight.”

 

“My room has twin beds,” I say. 

 

“Then we aren’t to sleep there,” you say against my ear.

*   *  *  *  *  

** Sherlock **

Despite my lack of casual attire, we walk along the beach. For the first time, everything feels in place and strange all at once. We stop for takeaway and wine. It is nice to be away from all the people that want our failure, but I think we both look forward to home. As we eat and talk with our legs entwined under the table I swore to not break, I can’t help but thinking that I am ready to get back to work. The case lay untouched for days while looking for you. Yet I know that in order to keep you by my side, I may need to push aside those tendencies to work non-stop. 

We do not make it through dinner before we are kissing. I pull you onto my lap and taste the spicy chicken on your tongue. As much as I want you this second, I don’t want it like this. 

I take your hand to pull you to your feet. “Are you done eating?”

“I think so.” You push your plate away. “What are we doing?”

“We’re going upstairs.” I kiss your neck. “I’m going to make love to you, Lucy Adams.”

Your fingers entangle in my hair as you bring my mouth to yours to kiss me so completely, I feel off balance. Part of me considers pushing the food off the table and taking you here. However, I want to take my time with you to savour every inch. 

I can hear the sea churning outside. Despite the chilly air, you insist on the french doors being open. You miss the smell of the sea. Between kisses, we undress each other quickly. Those lovely curves, I sigh. I never thought I’d see them again. And the scar, bright pink in your side. I kneel down and press my lips to it to the raised skin. Your fingers thread through my hair. My tongue traces every ridge and valley as if committing it to memory. I feel your breath quicken under my lips. 

“Most girls get flowers or a ring. Not me. I get a scar,” you tease in a seductive voice. 

I look up. “Flowers die and rings are too expensive.” You give my hair a tug. “Ow.”

I lay you on the bed. The cool air raises goosepimples across your skin. I cover you with my body. I start with your lips and work downward. You sigh at my nips across your flesh. From your neck to your nipples. I kiss that scar one more time before sliding down to taste you. 

I missed your musk. Your hips quiver in an attempt to hold still. I find a rhythm that causes you to move with my tongue. 

"I want to wait," you pant.  “I want to wait for you."

I kiss my way back up to your mouth. I pause, ready to clean up if asked. You kiss me hungrily, pulling my body on yours. My hips move against you, rubbing myself on your thigh. A shift in position, and I enter you effortlessly. Slowly, I move deeper and deeper. Your hands press my back into you. I concentrate on not moving too fast. It’s been days and I am afraid I won’t last long. 

Suddenly, you flip us over rather effortlessly. My eyes widen at your show of strength. 

You grin down at me. “I’ve been going to the gym."

How could ever you think I would want this with anyone else?

Your hips grind into me at an achingly slow pace. My neck cranes back against the pillow. I close my eyes to concentrate on not letting go too soon. Then you disappear. Cold air rushes around me. I open my eyes to see a devilish smile before your lips descend on my neck. You hover over me like an animal with its prey and I’m throbbing from want. You work lower across my chest and stomach. Your teeth graze my left hip and suck the flesh above a scar that I have from a fight years ago. I look up to see your mouth engulf me. My hips arch to meet while my hands grip the sheets beneath me. I knew the first moment I tasted your tongue, it would be the death of me. No matter what part of my body it touches, it drives me mad. 

I know you can taste yourself on me, and it only makes me harder. I feel the tingling start and it’s not how I want this to end. I pull my hips away.

"No," I manage to choke out. “Come here."

You smile at my lust-filled plea. Crawling your way back up to me, my penis has contact with the length of your body, breasts and stomach. You kiss me slowly as I catch my breath for a moment. All the cases in the world disappear leaving me with this. To feel alive and connected to someone, I never thought it was possible.

After a few moments, you sink down on me again. My eyes roll back. I’m so close to orgasm, I’m not sure how long I can hold on. Gradually, your hips move faster. I push myself up so you sit in my lap. The movement elicits a moan from you. 

"I’m close," I gasp.

"Me too," you sigh. “So close, keep moving like that."

Your nails dig into my back. My mouth clamps on the soft spot between your neck and shoulder. You bury your fingers in my hair to keep me in place. I suck and bite as you moan. You tell me not to stop. You call out to God and Jesus. I feel you tighten, almost massaging me while you move. I’ve held back as long as I can. I withdraw from your shoulder to taste your lips. 

"Love you," I whisper against your lips as I surrender to the release - into you. 

You say nothing but close your eyes in ecstasy.

"Look at me," I demand.

Your eyes lock on mine as you come undone.  Your mouth is slack and eyes half opened. Blonde hairs stick to your sweat slick neck. It’s a beautiful sight. Slowing down, we savour the last few moments of our orgasm. 

"And that is what we call make-up sex," you pant with a smile.

"Brilliant." My head feels light. Probably from lack of nutrition and my use of nicotine patches. 

I collapse back against the pillows and pull you with me. 

"This was much better than the table," I say.

"Definitely. I’d hate to explain to Rachel what happened," you chuckle.

"I thought she hated me," I muse.

"I think she’s cautiously optimistic about you."

"I guess I can’t ask for more than that," I say. 

With a kiss, you settle in by my side. This is what I missed most. A bed was something I rarely used. It was a necessary evil to be used to refuel my brain. Sometimes, I never made it to the bed and collapsed on the sofa. I would only require a few hours a night. Perhaps longer if it had been days since I closed my eyes. Since curling up beside your body, I sleep better. Even if only for a few hours, I feel refreshed. 

Your fingers trace a pattern on my chest and stomach causing my muscles to dance under them. I feel sleep tug at me as I caress your back lazily.

"Tell me about the drugs," you say suddenly.

My eyes snap open. “What?"

"I know there have been references made to them in the past. Mycroft and John seemed very concerned." You prop your head on my chest to look at me.

I want to forget how I considered taking a little bit to help me think. The old habits nag at me. I run a hand over my face.

"What exactly do you want to know?" I ask.

"Whatever you feel comfortable telling me." You return to tracing patterns in my chest to comfort me.

"It ended years ago." My throat tightens.

"How did it start?" 

"Not the right people in my life. My mind is a machine, but then it was out of control. I needed focus and I was told it would offer me some. How could I refuse?" 

"But you are such a control freak," you say.

"Exactly. Have you ever done cocaine or speed? That is exactly what it gives you, or at least the illusion. For me, it blocked out all extemporaneous thoughts." Talking about it reminds me of my skin crawling and the hunger for the high. “Becoming dependent was unfortunate. I don’t have many flaws, but an addictive personality is one."

You give me a wry smile. “Not many flaws?"

"They cannot be so terrible. You are naked in a bed with me," I counter.

"You’re just a good shag." Lightly, you pinch my nipple. A tingle shoots across my stomach to my pelvis.

"What got you clean?" You ask.

"Mycroft and Lestrade." I see the guilt in your face. “I was fairly strung out. Never ending days of highs and lows. I wasn’t thinking clearly. The thing that made my thoughts clear now blurred them. I was helping Lestrade unofficially at the time. He said he could pay me if I was clean."

"How long ago was this?"

"Eight or nine years ago." 

You are quiet for a few moments. I know another question is coming 

"Have you used since?"

I swallow hard. “There were dark moments a few years ago." I brush the hair from your face. “Very last time was when Lestrade proposed to you."

You pick your head up to look at me closely. “Really? That night?" 

I nod. “There was too much moving in my head. Moriarty threatened you. At the time, I was experiencing an extreme emotional reaction to losing you."

"I thought you went to Irene’s. Back then, I thought there was more going on with you two." 

I let out a soft laugh. “No, there was more between you and me. We just chose to avoid it."

Your head rests against my chest. “And the past few days?"

I bite my lip. “I was tempted. If I want it, it’s not difficult to come by. I knew it would not aid me in my goal."

"Goal?"

"To get you back." I say. 

*  *  *  *   *  *

** Sherlock **

“Jesus, what did you do last night?” You touch the reddish purple mark at the base of your neck. 

I shrug. “You told me not to stop.”

“This might be the largest one I have ever received…with the warmer weather coming….” You shake your head. “I might be too old for these.”

“You allowed Greggy to give you one,” I say snidely.

You turn to me. “What? Good God, you remember that?”

I tap my temple. “Hard drive.” I button my shirt. “It’s difficult to forget unpleasant scenes.”

Your arms wrap around me from behind. “That’s in the past.”

“I know.” I nod. “I was not making an attempt to mark you as mine. I was carried by the moment.”

You laugh, examining the bruise. “At the moment, I won’t be going for an job interview.”

“What about InfoTech?”

“I’m not moving to the U.S. now. I’ll need to start over.” You shrug.

“You are certain about this?” I ask.

“Did you drag John from his honeymoon to have me leave after one more night of passion?” You cock an eyebrow.

“If you stay, it should be because that is what you want.”

“We both want that.” You reach up to kiss my cheek. “Now let’s go. I already cleaned Rachel’s sheets. We should leave before they get messed again.”

 ~~~~

When we reach our flat a few hours later, your mouth drops when you see the state of it.

“Were we broken into?”

“No,” I answer casually. “I told you I was frantic.”

Papers line the floor. The cushions are tossed about. You walk into the kitchen and I hear a crunch. 

“What happened to most of my teacups?” you call. 

I sit at the desk. “I guess you won’t believe we had an earthquake in London while you were away?” 

My laptop springs to life. Since shattering my mobile in Brighton, I have felt naked. As suspected, I have several emails. Some from Lestrade wondering if I have located you. Now he is concerned. I delete. I see a few from Irene. My fingers twitch. Do I even want to know what she has to say?

You return from the kitchen to place the milk bottle on the desk. There on the front is your note - just as you said. 

“Next time you go missing, I’ll know to search the refrigerator,” I say staring back at the screen.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Emails from Irene.” 

Your hand rests on my shoulder and massages a knot that has formed. “You seem upset.”

“Knowing how she got to you, I am not pleased to receive communication from her.” 

“Emotion is not an advantage,” you say.

I grab your hand as you move away. “True. But in the interest of full disclosure, stay. We deal with her together.”

You smile and place both hands on my shoulders and knead away the tension.

First one is benign - similar to the text she sent. Six hours later, she wants to know where I am, I’m usually better about responding. Yesterday, she called around the flat in something she describes as “comely” to give me more information. She mentions the ineptitude of the police. She attempts to massage my ego going on about my superior intelligence. Oh, she’s good. A few years ago, I might have been influenced by the compliments. 

“I can see why you thought this was all so innocent,” you purr in my ear. “I guess every man likes his ego stroked.” 

“That’s not at the top of my list.” I smirk. 

You run a hand through my hair and walk away.

“Where are you going?” I ask. 

“To see if it’s true.” 

You are trying lure me away from work.

“What’s that?” I go about my business of deleting Irene’s emails.

“To see if my bed is more comfortable.” With that, you turn to climb the stairs.

I smile as I delete at least one of Lestrade’s emails that have nothing to do with the case. Then - I remember.

“Lucy, wait!” I tear up the stairs after, but I’m too late. 

You stop short in the doorway gaping at the scene. “Are you certain we were not broken into?”

“I was,” I pause to consider my words carefully. “I was not in a good mind frame before I left.”

You face me. “I thought you said that you didn’t use. This,” you gesture behind you, “doesn’t look like the work of a sober person.”

I scratch my ear. “I was sober for the most part. You left some wine on the counter. I might have had a glass. You know, to take the edge off the nicotine patches.”

You frown. “Nicotine patches? I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I didn’t - I don’t. Not for years, but I miss the nicotine. I’ve been known in the past to utilise them.”

“What happened here?” Your eyes survey the bedsheets twisted on the floor. On the stripped mattress, feathers from a torn pillow clump. Some are strewn on the floor, the dresser. My bedside lamp lies on its side. In a word, my room is trashed. 

“I reacted poorly realizing that you left of your own volition.” Truthfully, the four nicotine patches made me irritable, very irritable. 

Perhaps I prefer your room as it was once mine. I feel as we share it now it, unofficially. Not yours, not mine but ours like this flat. Returning to this sparse room without any connection was too much. 

“You did this?” You blink incredulously. 

I nod. “It’s a blur, but yes. I did do this.”

You survey the damage. “I guess we are in my room tonight.”

“I’ll put it back together tomorrow,” I say. 

Leaning against the doorjamb, you look up. “It really bothered you?”

“The possibility of you leaving? Yes it did,” I say bluntly. 

You touch my arm. “I’m not going anywhere.” Then cast a gaze at the destruction of my room. “But I’m not sleeping in here tonight. We’ll sleep in mine.”

_Ours_ , I want to say. 


	34. Family matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy gets to deal with Mycroft and Mum in the same day

Lucy

I have no idea how, but Mum gets wind of the job offer and my refusal. It could be Rachel, but I have a feeling there are a few of my mates that could deliver the news. I agree to lunch on the other side of the city. The last thing I want is for her to wind up in our flat. When I left this morning, it was still in a state of disrepair. 

The week had us so knackered, that I crawled into bed to read while you worked. Not long after I settled in with my book, you did the strangest thing. You staggered in, stripped your clothes and curled up beside me. I expected a Sherlock seduction, but instead I heard your breathing grow even and deep. Yours arms never leave me all through the night. When I wake in the morning, you are still wrapped around me. Before I leave the flat, I make certain you are aware of where I am going. 

I am grilled the moment I sit down. 

“You’re still with that Sherlock?” The hate is palpable.

I give her a simple, “Yes.”

Next, she chastises me for turning down the job in America. “Not that I wanted you to move far away, but I hate that you gave up your career for that man.”

Career? What career? Is she referring to my illustrious marketing career or my silly little stories? I hope to find a career while making ends meet. 

“What happened to buying your own flat?” she asks.

I don’t have much to say about that. My savings stockpiled for a downpayment has dwindled during my time out of work. To be honest, I have not thought about that plan in a long, long time. 

She changes tactics and provides me with an update of her friends’ sons - who is newly divorced, one widower, and one back from America. They are handsome, brilliant, and keen to meet with me. I do not even respond to her suggestion. 

The lowest blow comes when she drops the bomb, “Your father would be so disappointed.”

That’s Mum, not afraid to pull every emotional guilt trip out her bag. Sure, you don’t share my father’s love for footie matches - or following EastEnders and Coronation Street religiously. I think he would see that something special like I do. I know he would enjoy watching you take Mum down a peg or two.

I sit back and watch my mother attempt to spin a web of poison against you. She uses everything in her artillery. This woman is still my mother. Without her, I would not exist but her desperation is just sad. With a smile, I drop enough bills on the table to cover our lunch.

I kiss her cheek and simply say, “Thanks for lunch. I’m going home to shag ‘that Sherlock’ senseless.”

I don’t turn to see the expression on her face. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  

** Lucy **

A black luxury car sits outside the cafe. I pay it no mind until I realise that it is crawling along with me. When I stop, the window goes down. 

“He wants to see you,” the woman says. 

I remember her from months ago - the last time I was summoned by Mycroft. My shoulders droop like a disciplined child. I can only imagine what the great Mycroft has to say to me after the last week. 

The door opens. I decide to get in before my mother sees and thinks I’ve been kidnapped - yet again.

This time, I am taken to an office building. The lift zooms to the top floor. Anthea, I finally remember her name, barely looks at me while she stares at her mobile. I think she is playing Angry Birds. She looks too bored to be doing anything work related. 

I am led down a long hallway with no doors - just one at the very end. Anthea opens the door and nods her head inside. It’s very clear that I have heard all I’m going to hear from her. I follow her gaze inside to see a large antique desk, two leather chairs and walls lined with books. 

“Lucy,” Mycroft sneers from one of the leather chairs. He motions to the one across from him. “Tea?”

“No thank you. I’ve just come from lunch, but you probably knew that,” I say.

“And how is mother?” The sneer does not fade. 

“Pleasant as usual,” I ease myself into the massive chair.

I reckon that his chair is smaller to make him seem like a more dominating figure. He didn’t need a bigger chair to intimidate me. My heart thunders so loud, I am sure that he can hear it. Or at the very least, smell my fear. I attempt to look causal and calm, yet I know I am failing.

“How is my brother?” he asks. 

I swallow hard. “He was fine when I left this morning. Eager to get back on the case.”

“Ah yes, the chase.” He threads his fingers together and dissects me over his folded hands. 

I have no idea if he approves of you and me. He cannot be entirely against it since he has not interfered. Perhaps he thinks that someone else would be a better intellectual match. 

“What did you want to see me about Mycroft?” I finally ask after the deafening silence. “Is this about my holiday?”

His smile fades. “Partly. Last week was….exceptional.”

I wait for him to explain what he means.

“No one has ever gotten close to my brother like you,” he says. “Perhaps John Watson. I did wonder for a time if Sherlock preferred the company of men…”

If this were anyone else, I might make a snarky comment. I hold his gaze and wait for him to continue.

“Then came you.” His smile returns. “I knew you could handle the intricate behaviour of my brother. I thought you were a step towards something. I did not anticipate that you could break through the wall.”

I shrug, suddenly very proud. “I didn’t try.”

“Your relationship with Inspector Lestrade may have pushed things along.” He rubs his chin the way you do when you are trying to form the correct words. “Thank you for saving his life that night. Moriarty would have destroyed him given the opportunity.”

Is that a flicker of real emotion on Mycroft’s face?

“I did what any one of us would have done,” I say tightly. 

“And how are you feeling?” He glances to my side.

“I’m better,” I nod.

He clears his throat. “About the last few days. It made one thing abundantly clear - you mean quite a bit to my brother. In fact, more than I thought was possible for him. He’s a genius but always faltered with emotion.” Mycroft’s voice softens. 

“He still can,” I say. 

There is a pause. “You know a little bit about his past.”

“The drugs? Very little.” 

“I haven’t been concerned for a long time. Until your holiday.” His eyes ice over again. 

“Neither of us handled that well,” I admit. “I should thank you for intervening, I guess.”

“Meddlesome Mycroft, ” he muses. “It made one thing very apparent. You are incredibly important to him. It is imperative that you remain at 221 Baker Street.”

“I’m not leaving,” I say.

“I know you turned down an opportunity in the States,” he says.

Is there anything he doesn’t know?

“Yes, I did. Are you worried I’ll change my mind?” I ask.

“They were going to counter offer with more money.” He dusts a piece of imaginary lint from his suit. “I made them see it was in their best interest to find a place for you in London.”

It takes me a moment. “Wait, you got me a job at InfoTech?”

“No, you got the job at InfoTech. I merely suggested proper placement.” He grins proudly.

My emotions are split between anger for the meddling and joy that I have a job.

“Am I supposed to hear from them?” I ask.

“Most assuredly.” He nods. 

“And this is why I was brought here?”

“Yes, and I must ask something of you,” he says. 

“Make your brother happy?” I offer.

He laughs, or at least I think that’s what it is supposed to be. 

“Of course that, but if another domestic should crop up, please talk to John. He knows best how to handle the situation.” Lazily, he leans against his palm to look at me. “Sherlock is fragile.”

I burst out with a laugh that echoes in the room. Suddenly, I clamp my mouth shut, realizing it was the wrong reaction. 

“In matters such as this, he is fragile. I always knew there was more lurking behind those dissecting eyes. He’s opened himself in a way he never has. In that, he has no defense mechanism other than what he used before,” he says quietly. 

The graveness in his voice chills me; and I understand completely. 

Everyone in your world views you as special. In the past, I would have thought they were all mad. Now, I see exactly what they see, and what they want to protect. While I don’t think you are made of fine china, your developing heart is something that needs to be treated as precious and handled with care. In the wrong hands, like Irene’s, it could be destroyed. 

“Besides Lucy, you are the best hope the Holmes have for carrying on the family name,” he says.


	35. Strike, dear mistress, and cure his heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy takes Irene to task....

** Lucy **

When I walk in the door, you are seated in your chair with your eyes closed and hands folded. I wasn’t sure you’d be home as I know you had planned to be in the lab. I try to be as quiet as possible since you are in your mind palace. With the click of the door, your eyes spring open. 

“Sorry,” I whisper.

You look at your watch. “Since it was lunch with your mother, I expected you sooner.”

“Lunch was longer than desired, but not this long.” I flop in the chair opposite you. “I was detoured.”

You frown. “Detoured?” Your eyes light up. “Ah, my dear brother?”

I nod. 

“Were you reprimanded for going on holiday?” You smirk. 

“Yes and no. He was more concerned with keeping me in London,” I say.

“I can’t disagree with that.”

“He says that he managed to get me a position at infotech in town.” I watch for your reaction.

“Doing what?” 

“I didn’t think to ask. I was too stunned,” I shrug.

Your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen and put it down. “Make certain is not something that is beneath your intelligence, like reception.”

“Do I have choice? The job market is abysmal,” I sigh.

You smile. “You sell yourself short. But Mycroft played nice?”

“It’s Mycroft. He was as pleasant as he could manage.” I think back to the last thing he said. 

Another buzz. Reading the text, your jaw tightens. You place the phone back down.

“Got your new phone I see.”

You nod but your gaze is far off.

“I guess it doesn’t keep prior ringtones,” I muse.

Your eyes switch to me. “You’re learning.”

I hold out my hand. “May I?”

With a slight nod, you hand over your mobile. 

Already, Irene has sent three messages. 

Think I’m being followed. Dinner? - Irene

I still have intel for you - Irene

If not dinner, I can tell you over breakfast. I have lovely silk dressing gown that would do your frame nicely - Irene

My stomach turns. How does one deal with the blatant seduction of your boyfriend? 

You seem unimpressed, but your cheeks look slightly flushed. 

The phone buzzes in my hand and I cannot not help but see her next message.

You must be bored with your flatmate by now. You know what I’m capable of. I can expand that beautiful mind of yours. Let’s have dinner - Irene

I bite my lip so hard that I taste blood. I hand the phone back to you.

“She gets high marks for persistence.” I fight to keep my voice even. “I’m going to shower.”

I’ve left the room before you finish reading the message. 

~

Thirty minutes later, I return with a clear head and clean body. You haven’t moved from your chair. I doubt you responded to her texts - you never do. You have returned to your mind palace. I curl up in my chair.

“What was the initial attraction?” I ask.

Your eyes focus on me as if waking from a trance. “To Irene?”

“Other than the obvious,” I say.

You take a breath in. “I guess it was the power. She held a number of people’s lives in her hand at the time. Yes, it was through lascivious means, but it was momentarily intoxicating.”

“John said that she pursued you.”

You nod. “In her way, she did. She was highly desired and yet she appeared to desire me. It was a powerful feeling. I never cared for the attention of a female. Hers was unexpected, and at the time, it was different and exciting.”

“So it was about control - as it is now,” I offer.

You blink. “I guess that would be a fair assessment.”

“Was her line of work appealing? Clearly, she wanted to shag you.”

You blink some more, caught off guard. “I-I never considered that.”

I lean forward. “You never wanted to surrender control to her?”

You stare at me like I’ve grown another head. 

I stand. “Always so in control, Mr. Holmes. Don’t you want to just let go?” I crawl onto your lap. “Something about Irene intrigued you once.” I place your hands at my waist. “Do you think I can’t give you that? The pleasure in pain and surrender.” I lean close to your ear. Your heart races under my hand. “Do you ever want to give yourself over to the extreme in both?”

I pull back to look at you. Pupils are dilated and mouth opened slightly, as if you want to say something. Your cheeks are flushed dark pink.

“Did I render you speechless, Holmes?”

Your hand drops to my thigh to discover my garter belt. “Are you trying to seduce me, Lucy?”

Your deep voice rumbles deep inside me.

“Only if it’s working,” I smile. I shift my hips. “It appears that it is.”

Your Adam’s apple jumps when you swallow. “You aren’t proposing just sex, are you? Does this have anything to do with the last text I received?” 

“Maybe. I’m offering you an opportunity to explore something you have considered,” I say.

“To turn my body over to you?” Your voice is a deep whisper.

“Yes, until you tell me stop.”

You nod. “Yes.” You lean into kiss me. 

I stop you with a firm hand on your chest. “Yes what?”

You looked confused for a moment. Suddenly, your mouth twitches up. “Yes please.”

I kiss you hungrily before pulling away. 

“I don’t have to call you Mistress or Miss Lucy, do I?”

I slide off your lap. “Not yet.”

*  *  *  *  *  *

** Sherlock **

You hold out your hand to me. My gown shifts and gives me a glimpse of a red lace bra underneath. You lead me towards your bedroom. I stop suddenly.

“Did you change your mind?” Yyou ask, disappointment around your eyes.

“No. Let’s go upstairs,” I suggest. 

“Okay.” With a gentle nod, you attempt to mask your surprise.

You feel as though I have kept you from my room in an attempt to keep part of my life apart from yours. Perhaps I did. The smaller bedroom reminds me of the time between leaving Baker Street and being with you. I retreated to this room knowing Lestrade had you in every way I wanted. I hid here when I was conflicted and afraid of giving myself over to someone. Bringing you here for this new adventure is a beginning.

I allow you to lead me up the narrow staircase. The bedroom is nothing like it was yesterday. I considered leaving it in disarray as an excuse to never use it. I hardly need an excuse to be in your room. You never question my presence in your bed. 

A smile spreads across your face as you see that the room has been put back together. From the overturned lamp to the torn up bed sheets, my room has been returned to its previous museum of loneliness.

For a moment, you are lost in your thoughts. We are overwhelmed, and I wonder if either of us has the courage. Perhaps it was a silly notion.

“Do you have any fantasies?” You face me.

I think to the months after you and Lestrade began dating. There was one night that I woke in a heap of drenched bed sheets and so aroused that it was painful. 

I glance to the dresser where the riding crop sits.

“Really?” Your eyebrows arch.

“I had a dream a few months ago, and you were both in it.”

You nod thoughtfully as you consider the item. Your eyes slide back to mine. “So…a safe word then?”

I swallow hard and nod. The thought of you holding the crop renders me a bit speechless. 

You smirk. “Milk.”

Still my Lucy. “Agreed.” 

You step back and look me over. Slowly, your hands slide across my chest to push my jacket off my shoulders. Instinctively, I reach for you.

"No." You grab my hands. “Not until I say. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Then I’ll continue." 

My jacket falls to the floor. I concentrate on holding perfectly still while your hands run down my arms with a slight pressure. My gaze fixes over your head. Watching you only makes me want to break the rules. I try to focus my mind on chemical formulas as you unbutton my shirt leisurely. Your lips follow your hands on my skin with soft kisses and gentle nips. My shirt joins my jacket. 

"Watch me." Your fingers snap the waistband of my shorts. 

My eyes switch back to you. My dressing gown hangs off your shoulders. It is more erotic than Irene’s transparent one. My hands twitch at my side eliciting a grin from you. You know how much I want to feel your skin. 

You undo my trousers and let them sag from my hips, nails raking over my stomach leaving a white trail of marked skin. My erection throbs beneath the cotton fabric. I attempt to will it away. 

"Take your dressing gown off me without touching my skin." Your voice is low but strong.

Carefully, I tug at the silk fabric so it slides from your shoulders. I desperately want to affix my lips to your neck and shoulder. Somehow, not being able to is more exhilarating. 

There you are in lacy red panties and matching bra. My eyes pour over the black garter belt and stockings. 

"Remove my stockings, slowly." You smile.

Finally, something for my fingers to do than ache at my side. You lean over and take the riding crop in your hands. 

"God, Lucy," I growl.

The tip of the crop presses to my lips. “Shhh. Silence is golden."

I nod, my skin feels hot and prickly. I kneel before you and carefully reach up your thigh. My fingers unclasp the front fastener. Despite your remarkable ability to control your emotions, I can smell the scent of desire. I long to touch you, to press my lips to your inner thigh. 

"Problem?" you ask.

I’ve lingered too long. I unclasp the second fastener and slowly roll the silky stocking down your leg. 

"Now place it on the bed," you instruct. 

I return quickly to remove the second. Feeling bolder, I allow my fingers slide along your inner thigh as I work on the second clasp. A firm tap on my shoulder from the riding crop has me retract my fingers immediately. Gingerly, I remove the second stocking. I glance to the bed questioningly. 

"Yes, on the bed, love." You smile affectionately. “Then come back here."

I stand in front of you awaiting what’s next. 

Your nails rake across my stomach and chest. One hand curls around the back of my head to pull me to your lips.

Your tongue teases mine before your mouth covers me completely. I have kissed you many times, but tonight is like no other. You pull away, and I know better than to go after you. Your teeth tug on my bottom lip. I consider biting back, just to feel the sting of the crop. 

You pull away and push my trousers to the floor. Another kiss. Your hand presses to my erection. Another quick kiss. Your hips brush against me, the soft skin of your stomach against mine. I feel the leather tip slide up my inner thigh. A moan escapes my lips. 

The crop moves from my inner thigh to press against my back.

"Control yourself, Holmes," you purr. 

I swallow and nod. 

"Okay." You step away. “Lie on the bed."

With child-like enthusiasm, I rush to lie on the bed. 

You smirk. “No, not on your back."

My stomach flutters as I roll over. What have you planned? I turn my head to see take the stockings in your hand. I feel the tickle of one trail up my spine. I bite my lip to suppress another moan. 

"Hands over your head," you say in my ear.

Dutifully, I stretch my arms over my head. As I suspected, you place one stocking around my wrist and tie it to the iron frame of the bed. How would have done this in your wooden sleigh bed? Thank God I suggested this room.

My bonds are not tight or painful. I could easily free my hands. You kiss my forearms as you work. I shudder when your tongue runs over the pressure point of my wrist. You pause while I regain some composure. The crop makes small circles on my back - threatening to be used if I cannot pull myself together. Once I lie still, you resume kissing, licking, and biting my flesh. You start at my arms and work your way to my shoulders and the back of my neck. 

"This mole." Your fingers presses against the base of my neck. “Might be my favorite."

Your lips descend upon it with a gentle sucking motion.

I cannot see you, but feel your weight on either side of me. Your hair tickles between my shoulder blades. 

"Though this constellation over here distracts me." Your mouth moves the front of my neck to a small collection of moles that I have always hated. Mother once said they made me unique. I found them to be ugly and too distinctive. I never considered that anyone would love them. 

I want to pick up my head and find your lips, but I know I would be disciplined. 

An overwhelming wave pulls me under. I squeeze my eyes closed to control the emotion building inside my chest. Never have I felt so….cherished. I have given you complete control of my body, yet I feel we are partners tonight. Irene had wanted me to beg for mercy, where I trust you will show it tenfold. 

When you are done showing your appreciation, your mouth moves to my back. You alternate between kissing and bite just hard enough to leave small imprints in my skin. It takes everything in me to not quiver. One bite at the base of spine causes me to jump slightly.

"Milk?" Your breath is hot against my buttocks.

Unable to speak, I shake my head. 

"You will tell me?" Light fingertips trace my sides.

"Yes," I gasp. 

Your tongue tickles the back of my knees sending sparks of lightning to my pelvis. I throb against my stomach just aching for your softness to surround me. The soft leather tip caresses my inner thighs before brushing against my scrotum. I can’t help but whimper. You apply some pressure, and my whimper escalates to a yelp of pleasure. The slight sting of the leather across my buttocks only adds to the sensation. 

"Control, Sherlock," you say firmly. “Now get on your knees."


	36. Taste the whip, in love not given lightly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Lucy are not alone.....

** Sherlock **

Anyone else, I would certainly question the command.

For you, I scoot forward to bring myself on my elbows and eventually on my knees. Rational thought slides away to leave just the desire to have you touch me. The case, all the accolades, all the danger melts away to for the now. 

"Part your legs more." Your husky voice tickles my lower back.

I feel your body heat behind me, but I don’t dare look. I would rather not know your plans. 

Your hands grip my thighs. I bite my bottom lip in anticipation. Your tongue slides along the underside of my scrotum. My hips react to the sensation. 

"Hold still, darling." Your fingernails dig into my thigh.

How will I ever survive you?

Your tongue resumes its torture on my reproductive organs. The sensation of you pleasuring me from behind sends blood pounding in my ears. If there is a world outside, I do not care to know about it. Every lick and suck curls my toes. My arms tremor from holding up my own weight under these conditions. 

When you take me in your mouth, I cannot help but call out. “Oh!"

Suddenly, I feel the cold hair around me as you move away. Now I want to beg.

"I’m sorry," I croak.

Irene would have cracked the crop, but you lean in to whisper, “It’s all right, darling."

I bite the pillow as your hot mouth surrounds me again. I know I will not have the opportunity tonight, but I cannot wait to return the favour. My arms nearly give out from under me. The heat moves from my thighs and stomach to my pelvis. I twitch against your lips. My voice is strangled with pleasure in my throat. I cannot warn you - I’m too far gone. 

You must sense my impending climax. The heat of your tongue abruptly disappears and is followed by the sting of the crop on my lower back. 

"Not until I say." Your voice is like melted butter against my ear.

Collapsing to my stomach, my breath is ragged. My hair sticks to my face.

"Again," I plead.

"Again what?" You ask.

"Again please. The riding crop." My voice breaks. “Please."

I can feel you smile. “Since you asked so nicely."

When the leather tip makes contact, my hips buck. The bite on my skin sets off explosions all over me. A harder slap follows. I hold my breath and wait for another. Instead, your soft lips press against my raised flesh. You draw away to deliver another tap. It starts softly, teasing me. Slowly, you increase the pressure and force only to calm my burning skin with your mouth. It’s a never ending cycle of pleasure and it draws me to the edge. 

"You look so beautiful and debauched." Your lips move against me. 

No one has ever referred to me like that. Genius. Frustrating. Fraud. Rude. Freak. Yet you see me as beautiful. 

I am panting and wriggling - so rigid, it hurts. Yet I do not want to stop. The next snap makes a crack against my skin. I still completely and hold my breath against the sting. 

Your breath catches with concern. “Milk?"

"Not yet, but I’m very close to climax," I huff against my arm.

"Then we’ll slow it down," you say tenderly.

You place the riding crop on the bed and hover over my back. Your lace scuffs the raw parts of my skin as you slowly kiss my marks. I wonder what it looks like, my alabaster skin tinged with pink. I long to rush to a mirror to see. Perhaps next time.

"Roll over, love." You sit beside me. 

I never liked ‘pet’ terms of endearment. The way the word ‘love’ rolls off your tongue is music to my ears. 

Without slipping my hands free of their binds, I maneuver on to my back. Now my arms cross above my head. For the first time in what seems forever, I see your radiant smile beam at me. My back still throbs as you pick up the riding crop again. I hold my breath. The touch is light and more amorous. The tip grazes my nipples, tickles my stomach, and teases the tip of my penis. Your tongue follows briefly. I cannot help by writhe beneath your touch. Swiftly, you remove your panties before straddling my hips. I clench my fists to fight the urge to move against you when slide against my length. You grind your clitoris against my tip. My breath comes out in short burst. 

You ease off me, your lips brushing my damp temple. “Tell me what you want."

A thousand things rush through my head. “You."

"Be more specific, you have me."

I swallow hard. “I want…I want…to move inside you until I climax so hard I see a God that does not exist."

You smile. “Oh, she does exist. And she’s about to fuck you all the way to heaven."

In one swift movement, you surround me. That alone nearly unhinges me completely.

I do not want this to end so I lie still to allow your hips to do their amazing work. Your soft eyes lock on mine as a tiny smile curls on your luscious lips. My stomach muscles tighten against the climax threatening to end this. You hold still. I could stay like here forever. This is far more intoxicating and powerful than any drug I have used. You lean forward, your hands trailing up my sore arms. 

"I’m going to mark as you mine," you murmur before you kiss me. 

Your lips blaze across my jawline and down the length of my neck until they find the soft skin above my collarbone. Lacing your fingers with mine, you begin to move again. Slowly at first, but with increasing speed. My teeth dig into my bottom lip hard enough for a metallic taste replace the sensation of your mouth. 

"May I?" I ask.

You pull your mouth from my neck momentarily. “Absolutely. I expect it, and  I want all of London to hear you."

Your hips move at a lightning quick pace, stroking me to completion. The build up has been torturous and extraordinary. I move under you, unable to match your speed and rhythm. I brace myself for the biggest orgasm of my short sexual life. All the blood drains from my extremities to my hips. My voice sounds otherworldly, high pitched and insane. Your grip tightens. You are close too. 

Everything is white hot light as I stare up at you. Your eyes do not leave mine, you do not even blink. Every muscle clenches and slowly unwinds as I climax so hard, I fear cardiac arrest. You tighten around me and bury your mouth against the tender bite on my neck. 

"God, I love you," I call out. 

You kiss me while we still move together slowly, relishing the contact of our damp skin. I unwind my hands from their loose binds to wrap my arms around you. 

"How are your wrists?" you ask. 

I inspect the pink inside of my wrist. “A little stiff. Worth the pain."

"Was that what you were expecting?" you kiss my shoulder.

"Oh Lucy, that was far above any expectations I had. You made me feel…" I search for the correct words - ones that are not syrupy or cliche. I keep halting on one. "….loved."

"Well, you are." You settle in by my side. 

"As are you," I murmur into your hair. 

*  *  *  *  *  

** Irene **

My phone lights up and vibrates on the desk. Perhaps it is you. It seems to take longer to get back to me these days. I frown at the number flashing on the screen.

“I hope you have an explanation for me,” I say. “What happened to New York?”

One word: Mycroft. I should have known he would intervene. I’ll bet he got John involved as well. So many people looking after you. I knew I would regret not destroying them when I had the chance.

The green light on my computer flashes. I hit enter and, there you are - entering your bedroom. The angle of the camera is perfect. When you tidied up, I was certain that it would be discovered.

I watched you work last night. You tirelessly poured over files and slides. Then you went to her room to sleep. I guess this is more serious than I thought.

Now you both enter the bedroom. I’ve lost interest in my conversation. The bottom line is that Mycroft and this Lucy have far too much influence on your life.

“I know there’s nothing you can do,” I snap to the voice on the other line. “As always, I should have taken care of it.”

The sound is very low on the video. I’m not sure that can be fixed with you back in London. I turn the volume to maximum.

“Any fantasies?” She asks.

“I had a dream once,” you say.

Second night in and I’m about to be entertained. She wears your favourite dressing gown. How original.

She orders you to remove her clothes, one cheap stocking at a time. I roll my eyes at her attempt to properly use a riding crop. It’s like she’s not even trying. Yet she is getting a reaction from you. I take delight in watching the clothes strip off you. For such a wiry bloke, you are quite toned. The hands ache to feel those muscle tighten under proper hands. You are beautiful like a sculpture. Oh what I could make that body do.

Your alabaster skin spreads across the bed, a sharp contrast to dark sheets. Your binds are far too loose - such a novice mistake. She does give your back the proper attention it deserves. Her bites are too light. Her strike is too gentle. I would have had you begging and red by now.   
As you crawl up to your knees, I see that glorious erection. I can’t help but uncross my legs to imagine those long fingers trail up my thigh. I guarantee she cannot pay your cock proper attention. She is tentative with her tongue, completely avoiding the dark places most women shy from. I would have you crying in ecstasy by now. The thought of your head tossed back, gag tied around your mouth makes me remove my French silk panties.

At last, she uses the the riding crop across your back and arse. You wriggle and buck, seemingly enjoying it. I think of the welts I would raise. You certainly would not forget that I had been there. You would not be able to walk properly for days once I was done. I see no clamps, dildos, anal beads or any of the proper tools for sexual torture.

I watch her treating you like fine china as if you were to break. For your lover, she doesn’t know you very well. You are capable of so much more. For every strike, she kisses the area. Did she not bother to research? Poor you not knowing any better.

I touch myself thinking of how that crop would sound against your skin if it had been in my hands. You would howl in pain and pleasure. I’d having you begging for hours before I gave into you. You’d see magenta when you finally came.

She mutters in your ear and that’s when I hear it.

“Again please. The riding crop. Please.”

She made you plead. Arousal turns to anger. She smiles, her confidence bolstered. She knows she has you. I’m not sure who I want to break more: you or her.

I look at her for the first time. She’s not unattractive. Her face is a little round for my liking. There is something fresh and natural like a common villager. She could certainly spend some time time at the gym or at the very least - away from pastries. Yet, I wouldn’t call her chunky. I would expect someone more statuesque for you. You need a striking partner, not a Rubinesque cherub.

She gives you smack that stills you. I know you can handle more than that, Holmes. If I was the one lucky enough to hold that crop, I’d smack you like the disobedient boy you are. However, she folds like a house of cards. You roll over, and I know it will all be over too soon.

As expected, she straddles to ride you. Yes, it’s dull, but the way you gaze up at her unnerves me. I’ve seen you flustered, angry, frustrated - even upset. This is rapturous and affectionate. I had no idea that the great Sherlock Holmes could feel so deeply. Suddenly, I want nothing more than for you to look at me like that. Jealousy beyond my imagination bubbles up from within. I’ve never wanted another person more. As she threads her fingers through yours, I want to scream. I’m watching something so intimate - and I just want it to be mine. What must it be like to hold such favour in your eyes?

So consumed in my own emotions, I almost ignore the incredibly cliche act of her biting your neck to raise a mark. But then I notice that she has one to match.

“I love you!” You call out as you arch your back.

Love? You in love? We do not love people. We challenge and beat them. We dominate with our bodies and minds. We control. You and I do not love.

There you lie beside the cherub, totally blissful. With ease, your hands slip from the binds to wrap around her.

Love. I have everything I require, but I desire this. I should be coiled around you in an afterglow. I want you to love me like you love her - like I love you.

I shake my head. This can be fixed. Given the choice, you know we are two halves of one whole. If you knew my deepest feelings, you would not want to lie beside her one more second.

I pick up my phone. After i send, I wait for a reaction. You both look to the pile of clothes on the floor. Nothing. I purse my lips and send another. You roll on to your side. You speak so low, I can’t hear what you are saying. She laughs lightly. The air around me feels hot. Tapping my nails on the desk, I wonder what will rouse you from that bloody bed. 

  
Angrily, I flick through my contacts. This should get you up. I hear your phone ring in the background.

Finally, you peel yourself off her to rummage through the clothes and find it in your jacket pocket. I can’t see the look on your face as you see my number.

“That’s right, answer it you silly boy,” I coax.

The call ends abruptly and goes directly to voicemail. You reject the call. 

  
“Who do you think?” You cast a gaze back to her.

“Really? And the texts too?” She rolls to her stomach.

You nod. “Yes. There is one way to end this.

“If you are deleting, she’ll just keep sending them,” she says.

Your smile is almost sinister. I want to smack it from your face, make you bleed and kiss you hard.

“I deleted and blocked her. No more interruptions,” you say, crawling back into bed with her

I have been….deleted. It can’t be. You’ve just told her that. I attempt one more text that would certainly raise your interest. This one cannot be ignored.

I love you, let’s have dinner - Irene

Text not allowed, it says. My phone sails across the room. I hear the screen shatter.

*  *  *  *  * 

** Sherlock **

“Oh my,” Your fingers tenderly touch the raw area on my neck. “I forgot how easily you bruise.”

“It’s good that I own scarves,” I smile. 

“That works in the winter. It’s getting warm for scarves.”

Your touch is feather light on my skin. I close my eyes and enjoy the sensation. 

“I wear this wound proudly.” I think to my meeting with Lestrade tomorrow. “And maybe a little smugly.”

There is a vibration from the pile of clothes on the floor. 

“Seriously?” you sigh.

“It might not be her,” I offer. “But probably is.”

I will delete tomorrow. I am blissfully exhausted and have no desire to break contact with you.

Another buzz. I roll to my side and trace the outline of your hip. A few days ago, I thought I lost this forever. I had no comprehension how important this part of my life had become. You are something I would defend fiercely against anyone if need be.

“We may need proper restraints,” I smile. 

“My stockings not enough? I didn’t want to hurt you,” you say.

My mobile rings. “Oh for God’s sake.”

I hop over you to find my mobile. Who finds it so important to interrupt me? It’s Irene. I reject the call. There are two new text messages on my screen. That woman is tenacious. I always thought domination was about power and superiority. Tonight, you showed me it is about trust and love. The difference between anticipation and fear. I could never trust any part of myself in Irene’s hands. Her bedroom was a place of intimidation, and I should have seen that from the start. 

“Who do you think?” I sigh.

“Really? And the texts too?” 

“Yes. There is one way to end this.”

“If you are deleting, she’ll just keep sending them.” You roll to your stomach.

I do not care if she says she has intel that could be useful. This is all part of her game, and we have been the pawns.

“I deleted and blocked her. No more interruptions.” I toss my mobile on the dresser. 

The small of your back looks so inviting. I drop a series of kisses there before working up to your neck. 

“You really blocked her?” you ask. 

I curl in beside you. “She is becoming bothersome - almost a stalker. I think an element always existed there.”

You smile. “I think you like the attention.”

“Perhaps I did at one point.” My fingertips trace the freckles on your back. “I remember how you reacted the first time you saw her in the flat.”

“I was not jealous,” you protest too quickly. 

“I should have deduced something was changing with us. I was upset that you left so quickly. You were upset to see her.”

“She was in my chair,” you pout.

“You went Lestrade’s for those few days?” I ask with a knot in my stomach.

You nod. “It was the first time I stayed there. But he understood needing to get away from you for a few days. In retrospect, I knew I was fighting a losing battle. I was already falling for you.”

I kiss you tenderly, thinking to the months that we lost. I should have recognized my emotions at the tree lighting. 

You shift beside me. “You were right. My bed is more comfortable. Should we get a new mattress up here?”

“I like your room better. It feels like home. We can use this room for our more active lovemaking and spare Mrs. Hudson the creaky bed.” I smile.

Your musical laugh fills this tiny room that used to be mine. Both bedrooms are ours now. Though we’ve never discussed it, we will not sleep apart again.

“That just leaves the kitchen counter as the last place to christen,” you say.

“Hmm. There is always tomorrow,” I mutter against your forehead before I succumb to sleep.


	37. Dinner and a movie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Lucy double date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. On July 9, I welcomed a baby girl into our family and well....as expected....I've been a little busy. I'm trying to get back to writing more, but it's a challenge. Have no fear - Sherlock and Lucy have a lot of story to tell....

Lucy

Dressed in my best suit, I walk into the InfoTech headquarters for my first day. My emotions are mixed knowing that I didn’t get this position completely on my own merit. Sure, I got a job but Mycroft exercised his will and got me this position in London. At least it appears no one else is wise to this.

My morning is spent meeting people, getting my clearance, having my computer set up, and meeting more people. 

Finally after one o’clock, I’m back in my office - alone. My view is better than what I’ve ever had. I can see a little of the Thames around a building. Every office has a tiny refrigerator for beverages and lunches. One person already disclosed that theirs is stocked with wine.

I pull my phone from my bag to see no messages. I know you are at the lab with Lestrade and Molly -you need to toss yourself back into the case. There has been a series of overdoses by young teens due to a new synthetic drug. No one but you sees the connection. In fact, last night you pinned it to our wall. 

My stomach growls. I skipped breakfast because my nerves were frayed. The coffee is not sustaining me. 

I pull the insulated lunch pouch from my tiny office fridge. While you were sad to not have me around the flat for laundry and midday shags, you were glad I was able to feel useful in employment again. To show your support, you packed me a lunch with a sandwich, biscuits and possibly a moldy apple. It was incredibly sweet and oddly domestic of you.

I retrieve my water and bag as I open my email, ready to update Rachel. Thus far, she is the only friend that will offer some support to us as a couple. I have yet to hear from mum after I exploded on her.

I unzip the bag to see one clear bag inside. Baby carrots? I didn’t think we had those. I hope it is not your attempt to suggest that I need to lose weight. 

I pull the bag out but drop it as soon as the light hits the contents inside. I have no idea how many there are - but it’s definitely previously frozen fingers. I might have mistaken them for fish sticks if not for the blood and fingernails. 

Quickly, I zip up the bag and shove it back in the refrigerator. My hand covers my mouth. Last thing I need is to vomit on my first day. And how do I explain that my boyfriend packed me a lunch of frozen fingers?

Just then, my mobile buzzes. 

Do you have my fingers? - SH

When you mentioned finger sandwiches - I did not think it was literal - L

Touche - SH

I will be there in 15 - I owe you lunch - SH

* *  *  *  *  *  

Sherlock

“The freak is here,” is how Sally announces me.

There was a brief period of time that her pet name bothered me. It stung like a mosquito bite, quick and itchy. After you started dating Lestrade but before we were together. For as long as I was considered a freak, I knew you would never want me. 

It turns out that I am blissfully wrong. You love me - a fact that I understand more each day.

“Sally,” I smirk. I smell a man emanating from her, and it’s not Anderson.

Lestrade looks up. “I see you are back to form.”

The last time I was in his office, you were missing. 

I nod. “What have you got?”

“Three accidental overdoses.” Lestrade stuffs a pasty in his mouth.

“Are we certain this is accidental?” I ask.

“These kids were bright from middle class homes. Two happened the same night at a house party.” Lestrade pulls the coroner photos from a folder. 

Closely, I look for any sign of a struggle or prior drug use. “How is this taken?”

“One was snorted and the other was ingested through tea.” He produces the third photo. “This kid was known to use more recreationally until he discovered this drug. It is ten times more addictive than crack cocaine.”

The tips of my fingers tingle. I had my limits back when I was using. My lowest point and greatest high came from a speedball. After that come down, I vowed to stay as far from crack and crystal methamphetamine as possible. Knowing my highly addictive nature, I would have died within the first week of trying it. Yet that question lurks in the dark corners of my mind.

I notice the dark sunken in eyes of the third victim. There is a trace of dried blood around the nostrils. 

“Snorted as well?”

“It’s how it started, but this time he injected.” Lestrade hands me a close up of the arms with bulging blue veins and red dots.

“Lucy home?” he asks. 

I glance up. “Yes.”

“That’s good.” His tone is unconvincing. “Guess it wasn’t as tragic as you thought.”

I ignore him and place the photos on the desk. 

“Jesus, what bit you?” Exclaims Sally.

I see her gaping at my neck. I didn’t think it looked that terrible this morning. You offered to put mute the purple with some make-up but I declined. 

“Is that for my benefit?” Lestrade snarls.

“Honestly, I apologize. I didn’t realise it was so visible.” I pause for a moment. “This is how I felt for the months you were with her.”

We regard each other for a few moments - each comprehending what it is like to stand in the others’ shoes. 

He clears his throat. “You said you found traces of this drug under the nails of the fingers we found.”

I nod. “Yes…I brought them with me. The person who removed them knew exactly what they were doing. The fingerprints have been meticulously burned off with acid. Tracing them back will not be easy.”

Lestrade curses under his breath. 

“I didn’t say impossible, I said difficult.” I place the small cooler on his desk. The moment I open it, I freeze. “Oh for God’s sake!”

“What is it?” Lestrade asks.

With a heavy sigh, I pull out a turkey sandwich.

“If this is a joke, Sherock…I don’t get it.” He frowns.

I rub my forehead. “I just gave Lucy a cooler full of severed fingers for lunch on her first day of work.”

Lestrade crossed his arms. “And she chose you.”

I hope I can catch you before you pull out the bag of fingers in the company cafeteria. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  
  
Sherlock

I loathe dinner dates - even if it is a night with you and John. It will be an entire evening having polite conversation while Mary gabs on about the honeymoon and flashes photographs I do not care to see. 

Mary and I tolerate each other, and I have a mountain of gratitude to bestow as she allowed John to help me find you. I think it was due to the fact that Mycroft would certainly not stop bothering John until he agreed to help, but Mary likes you. In fact, I would be hard pressed to find anyone that does not like you better than me. 

Mrs. Hudson let her feelings be known when you returned. She told me, “Do not foul this up dear” and patted my cheek affectionately. Even Molly said that she liked me better when I was with you. I was easier to deal with. The general consensus is that I am better person around you. The old Sherlock would have railed at such a notion - such dependence. Someone else making me better? I know they are all right - a part of me needs you to function. 

I watch you bustle around the flat getting ready for a night out. As patiently as possible, I drum my fingers on the arm of my chair. I wonder if part of the anxiety is a reminder of the last time we were to meet John and Mary. We rushed into a taxi only to be abducted and tortured. However, would be here together if not for that experience?

Tonight, a car waits for us. Mycroft has sent his by request. He seems very keen to keep you content at my side.

“Okay,” you say, breathlessly. “I’m ready.”

I admire your choice of dress. I adore the way you wear blue, it doesn’t matter the shade. It’s the perfect compliment to everything - skin tone, eyes, hair. 

I stand and button my jacket. “Let’s get this over with.”

You frown. “I know you’ve missed John. You’ve made it clear that I’m a crap substitute for him.”

“I have never said anything,” I protest.

“You don’t have to.” You smile. “I wish you’d let me put something on that.”

You refer to the mark you left on my neck a week ago. It’s faded to a yellowish green, but still unmistakable.

I shake my head. “I am not wearing make-up. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You had a different view months ago,” you cluck.

I smirk. “When it wasn’t my doing, yes.”

“Cheeky bastard,” you wink.

“The car is here,” I announce.

I know if we do not leave now, we may not leave the flat tonight. 

As we walk out the front door, you lean closer. “I’m disappointed, Holmes.”

I shoot you a questioning glance. “Pardon?”

“Your powers of deduction are waning.” You give me a saucy smile. 

I open the door of the sedan for you. “What?”

“I thought you could deduce that I’m not wearing any panties. Perhaps you aren’t looking in the right place.” Your hand brushes my cheek.

My head whips in your direction, but you are already seated in the car. My heart rate accelerates. Why would you forget to wear knickers?

I sit beside you, and I know by the smile that you neglected them on purpose. With a raised eyebrow, my fingers slide up your thigh feeling only your soft skin - all the way past your hip to your waist. I shudder.

“Why did you do that?”

“The hope of possible public copulation,” you purr.

“What? In the car?” Mycroft would have a stroke if he discovered we used his private car for sex. 

“I was thinking something before dinner. An appetizer if you will.” Your hand slips to the inside of my thigh several inches from my emerging erection. 

“Where?”

“There are private stalls in the women’s toilets.” Your fingers make slow circles as they slowly inch up, acerbating my growing situation.

“Seriously?” This seems kinky, even for you.

“As cardiac arrest.” You lean closer, your breath on my neck. “Copulate with me, Sherlock.”

I bite my lip. “I love your dirty conversation.”

Our mouths collide ravenously, teeth scraping lips. As I am about to cradle your face, you pull away with a devilish smile. 

“We’re here.”

I wipe my moist brow. I thought this would be agony before, now dinner with Mary and John has become war criminal level of torture. 


	38. And now for some dessert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is hungry and it's not for the dinner specials

** Lucy **

I like seeing the sweat collect around your temples. As we walk into the restaurant, your hand grazes my backside to confirm the only material there is my cotton dress. 

“Can’t we ring them and say we are delayed?” Your lustful voice rumbles in my ear.

“They see us.” I wave.

“Miss Adams, you are the devil.” You attempt to mask your arousal.

You paste that creepy smile on your face. John knows it as soon as he sees you. 

“Welcome back.” You offer your hand to him. 

His eyes spot the discoloration on your neck immediately. “You’ve been well, I take.”

“Not in northern France, but very well.” You begin to thaw a bit.

This is the first time we’ve been to dinner with another couple as a couple ourselves. Somehow boarding school taught you manners because you pull out my chair for me. Only once you sit do you unbutton your jacket. 

Your leg bounces under the table in frustration. Perhaps I was too direct. In this state, you can be rude and incorrigible. 

John and Mary talk about days spent in vineyards. She shows me pictures on her phone. I don’t bother to show you. I know you have no interest whatsoever. You and John discuss ‘the case’. But even with that, you are distracted. There is one thing on your mind right now.

When hors d’ouevres are order, I hear you sigh. That kind of behaviour deserves reprimanding. I slip my foot loose from my shoe. Crossing my legs, I slip it under your pant leg. There is a sharp intake of air as you side glance me. 

John wraps his arm around the back of his new wife’s chair. They are darling together. I wonder how people regard us. You are tall and slender with features inspired from classic statues - sharp cheekbones and large almond eyes. I, on the other hand, am short with too many round edges, too many freckles, too girl next door. I’m more likely to your best mate and not the girl you want to mate with. We are night and day in so many ways. Even though I hate to admit it, Irene belongs here more than I do.

My wholesome appearance doesn’t seem to matter as your arms drapes behind me. Your body leans into mine and I can feel your heart race against me. I allow my hand to rest on your thigh, my thumb running over the taut muscle under your trousers. You blink and purse your lips. I wonder if you will make it through the first course.

After we order dinner, I stand. “If you will excuse me.”

Mary also stands. “I’ll go with you.”

I curse my genders need to go to the loo in pairs.

You shoot me a frustrated look. There is nothing I can do but watch your leg tap furiously under the table. I practically run to the toilet making Mary run to catch up. If this is going to work, there is only one way I can play this. 

I take my time and wait for Mary to leave in hopes that you will sneak in after. Instead, she chats as she sits in the next stall. She gabs while she washes her hands. She leans against the counter waiting for me. I realize that she will not leave without me. I give in and leave the stall to wash my hands as I formulate plan B. 

“I must have had something off for lunch,” I lie. 

“Oh dear, are you all right?” She asks.

I rub my abdomen. “It’s lower intestinal.”

There. I have come up with an excuse to be in the bathroom all night long. 

“I thought the tuna tasted fishy, more than normal,” I sigh. I can be a great actress when needed.

You are glancing at your watch when we return. “I was ready to go in after you,” you say pointedly.

“She’s having tummy trouble,” Mary whispers.

You shoot me a questioning look.

“The tuna I had for lunch. You told me it was questionable,” I say.

Luckily, you are quick. Snapping your fingers, you nod in agreement.

“Should we reschedule?” John asks.

“No, I’ll be fine. Just excuse me if I dart for the toilet,” I joke.

Half way through the first course, I excuse myself again. This time Mary does not follow. I pace in the largest stall they have. I didn’t think how you would excuse yourself. Hearing the door open, I look for the shoes. Women’s black pumps. Bollocks. I hold still while she does her business. She must abide by the five minutes for washing hands, or else it seems like time moves slowly. She leaves and I look at my watch. It’s been under two minutes. 

The door opens again but this time it is the familiar scrape of your shoes against the tile this time. You push open the stall door to see me waiting. In one fluid action, you lock the stall behind you and press me to the wall, your hot and hungry mouth on mine. Your fingers run up the inside of my thigh to touch me. While you explore me, your hips grind into me. Your free hand kneads my nipple through the cotton material. 

You pull away and crouch in front of me.

"Noooo. There are no towels, just the air dryer," I say as your hands lift the hem of my dress.

You look up. Somehow you manage to look innocent in this pose. “I thought you were far more adventurous, Lucy."

I want to bite at that wicked smile. “Suit yourself." I shrug. 

Your head disappears under my dress. My stance widens as your tongue follows the path of your fingers. God, that tongue so quick to deduce and excite. My hips quiver against your mouth. I grasp those curls, driving myself against your rhythm. I try to pull away knowing my orgasm is so close. Your fingers dig into my hips locking me in place. You know exactly what you want. I hold my breath to keep my cries from echoing off the tile walls. We don’t need the waitstaff barging in. Maybe it is the proximity, my gulps for air or the fact that there is a full length mirror in this stall where I can watch us - but my orgasm is one of the strongest I’ve felt and I nearly lose consciousness. 

Once my hips stop rocking against you, you pull yourself up while undoing your trousers. I am thankful you never wear a belt since it would make a terrible clatter as I push your trousers past your knees. 

With incredible strength, you hoist me around your hips, using the handicap rail to help support my weight. Like two pieces of a puzzle, you thrust into me without needing to find the right position. My back collides with the wall. 

Just then, the door opens and you still yourself. Beads of sweat form along your brow and hairline. Quietly, we nip at each others’ swollen lips - intoxicated in our lust and need. 

The faucet turns on and soap pumps twice. Dear God, I hope she doesn’t wash her hands first. I swear I feel you throb inside me. When the faucet turns off, we wait for the stall door beside us to open - instead the door opens and she is gone. The hunger burns in your eyes, and you drive into me hard and fast. My weak legs wrap around you to hold on for dear life. One hand rests under my arse while the other pulls at my neckline of my dress to expose my shoulder. Your mouth clamps onto my shoulder as you move faster and harder. While burying your climax into my flesh, my skin burns against your teeth. I press my lips to your damp temple. Your body goes rigid, signaling your release. You stay still for about 45 seconds before I feel your muscles relax.

We’ve had plenty of sex since that first night together - but this was just primal copulation. It was a torrid, insatiable need. It was bloody beautiful. In most of the relationships I’ve had, sex was separated into lovemaking or fucking. Never has a relationship had both. We just shagged each other senseless - but there is love behind every thrust. Yet making love to you is more than a few lingering caresses and romantic words. Suddenly, I feel like the luckiest girl in the world with my dress around my waist and my scent on your lips. 

Gingerly, you set me back on my feel. My legs wobble a little under me. 

"You okay?" you ask in a low voice.

"Famished." I wink. 

Your hand cradles my cheek, a small smile on your lips. “Lucy, you minx."

It took under ten minutes from the moment you pushed into the stall to my returning to the table. 

"Did you get ill?" Mary asks when she sees my flushed cheeks. 

"A little. But I think it’s over and now I am starved." I take my seat. 

You follow a few minutes later.

"Did you also have the tuna?" John cocks an eyebrow. He absolutely knows what we were up to.

You look relaxed for the first time all evening. “Someone had to hold her hair."

Suddenly, you are witty and engaging. Who knew that sex before a social gathering would bring about an entirely different Sherlock? Mary is delighted to see the change, while John is amused. I can imagine it must be odd for him to see his old mate in such a different light. 

For the rest of the night, my shoulder throbs under the cotton of my dress. I know when I get home, the impression of your teeth will still be in my skin.

  


* * * * * * 

** Sherlock **

I stop you at the front door to kiss you. “We have to do that more often.”

You smile up at me. “It’s amazing what a pre-dinner shag will do for your mood.”

“Or even one during dinner.” I press my forehead against yours. “It was unbelievably dirty and torrid.”

You grin smugly, knowing it was exactly what I needed. I wonder if there is any more energy left for tonight. But I see that wicked look in your eyes, and I’m growing hard just thinking about it. Maybe we need to baptize the kitchen tonight.

“Tea?” you ask as you toss the house keys on the table.

“That’d be brilliant,” I say. “I’m going up to change.”

By changing, that means I will take off everything and come down in just a dressing gown in hopes of enticing you into round two.

I strip off my jacket and start to unbutton my shirt as I bound up the stairs. You’ve let me move into your room, but refuse to sacrifice your closet space to my things except for a few of my dressing gowns which you have taken to wearing.

I flick on the light and hear, “You were expecting me.”

I freeze. In all her naked splendour lies Irene - handcuffed to my bed. My face screws up in confusion.

“Just take off the rest of those clothes and join me for dessert.” She spreads her legs giving me a view of things I did not want. She’s groomed to resemble someone not quite at puberty.

“How did you get in?” I ask.

“I have my ways. I have been trying to contact you and it seems your number has changed.” She pouts.

“No, it is still the same number. Our acquaintance is over. There is no need for us to talk.”

She feigns hurt. “Sherlock, I am here to offer myself to you. We both know this is what you really want - control. You can have what no one has ever had - control and power over me. You already have my heart, now take my body. I am utterly defenseless against your advances. Teach me a lesson I won’t forget, Sherlock.”

I sigh. I hate to subject you to this display, but it might be the only to be rid of her for good. “Irene, I’m not even flattered to be quite honest. I have no interest in your heart or body. I have everything I want and need already.”

She snorts. “Little Lucy? Please. I think it’s sweet that you are slumming it, but we both know she is nowhere near our level.”

I nod. “I know, she’s far above it. You could learn a lot from her.”

She looks as though I’ve slapped her face. “She could learn a lot from me.” Her smirk returns. “In fact, invite her up. Think about it, you could have the best of both worlds. The angel and the devil.”

My smug grin cannot be contained as I think back to earlier. “I have that.”

She rubs her legs together like a cricket while she writhes on my bed. “Think how incredibly hot it would be to watch me give your precious girl an orgasm while you do whatever you like to me.”

My stomach turns at the thought. Why would I sully something as beautiful as what we have by inviting a poisonous snake to join? I duck my head out the doorway.

“Lucy! Can you come up here for a moment? There is something I need you see,” I call down the stairs.

“Really Sherlock, we need to work on your wooing skills,” you say as you walk upstairs a moment later.

You gasp and your hands fly over your eyes. “Is that what I think it is?”

My arms slips around your waist. “Yes it is.”

“Oh, look…she’s shocked. How precious,” Irene cooed.

“I think we need better security in the flat,” I say casually. 

You frown. “Clearly.”

“Sherlock wanted to know if you’d like to join us,” Irene says. 

I shake my head. “No…no. Lucy and I were headed here anyway. You’ve just soiled our sheets.”

She winces at the term ‘our’. I pity her for a moment. She honestly believes that I would leave you for the chance at playing one of her foolish games. Irene Adler is utterly clueless and hopelessly desperate. 

“Why don’t you let her speak for herself?” Irene purrs. 

“Okay Irene. Perhaps you need to hear from me.” You step forward. “Get out of my house.”

Slowly, Irene’s pallid complexion turns pink with anger, maybe even a shade of embarrassment. Never before has she been so thoroughly refused and rejected. 

I slip my arms around you to press my lips to the side of your neck. “It’s best you leave soon. I really want to make love to my girlfriend.”

I feel you jolt in my arms. You know I loathe the term, but I know Irene hates such pedestrian pet names more. I allow my hands to wander across your body. 

Irene has reached her breaking point. Every angle she attempts is refused. With a quick tug, she breaks free of her handcuffs. Ah, another one of her dirty tricks. She was never prepared to hand herself over to me. She had an escape. 

“I cannot believe you have settled for such mediocrity as this,” she spits in your direction. “I have offered you the world and you choose this lump.”

You stiffen in my arms. I know you are on the edge of lunging at her to possibly take her apart with your hands. 

“Do not come back, Ms. Adler. You are not welcomed here.” Menace edges my voice. 

Irene grabs the clothes she draped carefully on my dresser. From what I can tell, it was a simple dress and trench coat. How dull. She doesn’t bother to dress as she stalks out in a pair of stilettos and nothing else. 

Slowly, I turn you to face me. “I’m really sorry that you had to experience that.”

Your arms wrap around my neck. “It was good to face her together.”

I smile. “Yes it was. I would say she has gotten the message loud and clear. I am yours completely no matter what she attempts.”

You pull my mouth to yours and kiss me so completely I long to crawl inside you. You pull away after a breathless minute to look over your shoulder. “She left us her handcuffs.”

I raise an amused eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that we use them, Miss Adams?”

“I think I am.” You press your hips against me to feel the affect your already have on me. 

I nibble your earlobe before whispering. “Can I use these on you?”

“I’ve never surrendered like that,” you say.

“Never?” 

“Never,” you move away. Quickly, you strip the sheets off the bed with one fluid movement before you lie on the bed and place your hands over your head. “Until now.”

I lick my lips. “Milk is still the word?”

You nod with your eyes on fire. “I won’t need it. I have a high tolerance for pain.” Your eyes look down to the bullet wound. You untie your dress and settle back on the mattress. “Shall we begin?”

 


	40. Picture this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dinner, an anniversary and a new blog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh for joy, I figured how to add photos to this.

**Lucy**

I hug John and Mary as they enter the restaurant. “Thank you so much for coming. I’m not sure I could do this alone.”

“Of course,” Mary says. 

“How did this come about?” John asks.

“Mum thought it was a good idea since it has become clear to her that Sherlock is not going anywhere. He’s in my life and if she wants to be a part of it, she needs to learn to live with it,” I say plainly. 

“How did you get him here?” John refers to you, perched in a defensive stance in the chair at the table. You sit at the edge of the chair, ready to strike or flee. 

“I’m not sure. I tried to come up with every conceivable excuse to avoid this.” I’m not sure I’m ready for another round of you and my mum. 

John claps you on the shoulder. “Sherlock.”

“John.” You regard him with a nod as you rise for Mary. “Thank you for coming, both of you.”

Mary will never be truly welcomed in your head. In a perfect world, John would live with us. You’d have the best of your worlds surrounding you and your disposal.

It always amazes me when you do something chivalrous like push my chair in for me, or help me with my coat. Boarding school or your mum did a very good job in that respect. Id like to think it’s just me that you enjoy pleasing - wanting to be a good partner. Now if we can get you to censor your monologues. I worry about mum being on the end of one of your scathing observations tonight. She’d probably deserve it, but no one wants to see their mum taken apart by their significant other - deserving or not.

Mum sweeps through the door, filled with nervous energy. I can tell by her face that she is already in a combative frame of mind. John stands as she approaches. You sigh and join him. I have to admit that your fake smile is getting less creepy. 

“Mrs. Adams,” John says.

“Please, call me Anna.” She air kisses his cheek.

You broaden your smile. “Mrs. Adams, lovely to see you.”

She doesn’t meet your eyes, but slips into her seat. “Thank you, Sherlock. You too.”

The iciness in her voice stings you. Pursing your lips, you sit beside me. My hand covers your knee reassuringly. Whatever she does or says, I’m here with you. Despite her status for giving me life, you are more important.

You notice that while my mum gives John a hug, she barely acknowledges me. I’m certain she views me as a traitor. In her mind, I’ve chosen you over her. I feel your fingers curl around my shoulder. Is it protectiveness or possession? You and mum share a glare over the table.

We fall into small talk, Mary and mum doing most of it. I watch mum’s lips purse as Mary talks of the wedding and honeymoon. Mary flicks through the photos on her mobile while mum coos like a baby. Feeling utterly left out, the rest of the table discuss the case in low voices.

“I guess you don’t find the topic of weddings very interesting, Sherlock,” mum snipes.

“I was very engaged that day. It was a wonderful celebration,” you say. Mary looks surprised and delighted. She had figured it was a torture for you. “I don’t feel the need to relive it with photos.”

The honeymoon reminds you of how I almost left. You were alone in London with only your brother distantly helping you. It doesn’t matter if it turned out all right. Those were still dark days for you.

Mum leans forward. “I guess this is still going on.” She motions between us.

“Clearly.” I don’t attempt to hide the bite from my voice.

“So Sherlock, when do you plan to make an honest woman of my Lucy?” She raises an eyebrow. 

“Mother, stop.” I roll my eyes. 

“Mrs. Adams, she is not ‘your Lucy’.” You lean forward. 

“I gave her life. What have you given her? Oh, a gunshot wound,” she says flippantly.

Christ, we haven’t even ordered dinner yet.

“You gave her life, yet do your best to diminish her self esteem to over compensate for your own failings,” you say calmly.

That pushes mum over the edge. “You little snit.” Her fiery eyes switch to me. “You’re going to let him speak to me like that?”

My mouth hangs open but no words escape. You’re right and how do I argue with that? Mum has hovered over me like a black cloud my entire life. My father managed to be the rainbow when he was alive. Once he passed, I felt the full weight of your darkness on me. Yet, I feel like a piece of meat being haggled over. 

“I’m speaking for her since she has too much respect to tell her yourself,” you say.

Suddenly, I’m annoyed with both of you. You, for attempting to be my voice - even if it true. And mum, for breathing. 

“Enough, both of you.” My voice is low growl.

“He started it,” mum whines 

My steely glare turns to her. With my hands on the table and head down, I know I look like a cougar ready to pounce on a fresh kill.

“You suggested this dinner so you could entice him into an argument,” I growl lowly. I turn on you. “And I can speak for myself. Now let’s order some sodding dinner.”

I yank open the menu when I could not think of putting anything in my churning stomach right now. Happily, the waiter turns up at the right moment. I order some soup and that is it. 

“I’m paying dear, no need to skimp,” mum says, but gives you a withering look. 

“That’s all I’m hungry for,” I sigh and hand the menu to the waiter.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see concern sweep over your face as you watch me. You order a curry like you always do. 

“You’ll waste away to nothing.” She turns to Mary who looks like she’s witnessed a murder. “Why do women feel the need to waste away to nothing for a man?”

“Bloody hell, mum,” I utter. “Do you ever stop? Just for a minute?”

Mum falls quiet for a moment as she looks over the menu. Both Mary and John order in quiet voices. 

“Please. I will be paying for dinner tonight.” Your voice is authoritative yet gentle. 

“I’ll have the duck with the sauce on the side.” She hands her menu over her shoulder. “Does he still foot the bill for you?”

“You know I have a new job.”

“You had more opportunity in America. We both did. There’s nothing left for us here,” she says bitterly. 

I lean into you. “I have plenty here, Mother. I don’t care if you don’t like it. I love him and there is nothing you can say or do to change that.”

John suppresses a smile. He’s always been our biggest supporter since he was the one that convinced you were not as bad as your first impression. Without his endorsement, who knows where I could be? It’s a devastating thought.

She looks at me. “Your father would never stand for this.”

“He might not have understood, but he wouldn’t be cruel.” My voice shakes.

“A bit desperate to use the memory of your husband to manipulate her. If you are so keen to leave England, Anna, then go. Do not use your daughter as an excuse or vehicle for your happiness,” you say icily. 

You had been silently watching my mum and me volley back and forth. I guess you reach your breaking point. 

“She was perfectly fine until she met the likes of you,” she hisses. “Since you, she’s been kidnapped twice. You bloody well shot her and could have ended her precious life. You’ve ruined her relationship with a good man. You’ve been nothing but poison!”

“I am the antidote to the poison you’ve pumped into her head since she could understand you. You weren’t happy with her father, were you? You played your part, but to the outside eye, anyone could tell you were clawing to get out. You were quite young when you got pregnant and now you were trapped. You would never travel like you wanted with a baby and a husband. Your resentment is more palpable than tonight’s specials. You made Lucy feel like she was not thin enough, not ambitious enough, just not enough since she could never make up for the life you could have lived.” You turn to me. “You have no idea how special she is. You should celebrate every day that she deems to talk to you, I know that I do. I know I’m not worthy of her, but I work every day to deserve her and so should you.”

The truth is unbearable to hear. I know everything you just said, but to hear you say it makes it real - not just a silly theory from a daughter trying to gain praise from her mother. 

And your words about me break my heart. How could ever think I’m better than you?

With that, I bolt out of the restaurant. It’s an oddly warm night in June and the air is not refreshing. I gulp for air in hopes of calming myself. Instead, I cannot stave off the tears that sting my eyes and threaten to smear my make-up. I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I know it’s you. 

“I’m sorry, Lucy.” Your voice is soft as you turn me around. “She got under my skin.”

“Nothing bothers you, Sherlock,” I grumble. “You have a steel exterior that keeps the little bit of squish inside you safe.”

“Not when it concerns you.” You touch my face. “The look on your face, it broke my resolve to not give into her pettiness.”

“I think she enjoys hurting me,” I sigh.

You wrap your arms around me and hold me close. Even after the shooting, you didn’t comfort me like this. Perhaps you weren’t sure you loved me and that is the difference.

“She wants to keep you with her - miserable and lonely,” your voice rumbles against my ear. “True, I’m no mothers first choice.”

I look up to see the sadness in your face. I realise that I know little about your own home situation. I gathered by Mycroft’s mothering that there was no “mum” for quite some time. Same with a father. I was afraid to ask. The last thing I ever want to do is shut you down.

“You’re my choice.” I wrap my arms around you. “What about your mum?”

A sad smile toys with the corners of your mouth. “Neither parent was overly demonstrative. Boarding school can be so convenient for people who probably should not have children.”

It explains you and Mycroft. I heard you both were once referred to as the Iceman and the Virgin. I’ve proven you are not a virgin. Iceman, that’s not my concern. 

it’s interesting that as of late, we find ways to touch one another. We crave contact from the other, and not just sexual. We’ve considered moving the Chesterfield in front of the telly so we can sit together when we watch it. Even during dinner, our legs entwine under the table. We cannot stop showing our love for each other. Now I know why. We both grew up without that warmth. Somehow, we bring it out in one another. I’ve never been this comfortable with affection with anyone else, while you’ve never been affectionate. 

“They are not alive anymore, are they?” I ask quietly. 

 

 

“No. But that is a conversation for another time.” You brush the hair from my face with a finger. 

I nod, knowing not to press on. “I have to go back, don’t I?” my shoulders sag. 

“Just to claim Mary and John.”

“I need a few more seconds. I know I should rescue John and Mary,” I sigh.

Your arms form a protective barrier around me. “I can get them if you don’t want to go back in.”

“No need.” I hear John’s voice behind us. “Your mother left out a side door.”

“Was she upset?” It’s a stupid question, I know.

“Um.” He’s trying to spare me guilt, but that’s been all used up. “A little.”

“You don’t think she’ll come back?” I ask.

You shake your head. “She’s out numbered. She has nothing to gain unless she’s coming back to apologize and I would not hold your breath for that.”

“I don’t need her apology.” I lay my hand on your arm. “We never have to do this again.”

“Let’s eat. I bet you will be ready for more than soup.”

I tilt my head. “I am suddenly starving.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

**Lucy**

What I did not know about InfoTech is that in the summer every other Friday is a half day. I guess I need to read the benefits list again. It’s such a lovely afternoon that I decide to take in a few hours of shopping. You’ve been working late the last few days. I consider texting you to see if you are up for an afternoon roll in the hay, but the store fronts beckon me. The fall line is already out in the stores which means a sale on all summer items. I could always use more business casual clothing. I’ve been careful to not spend my new earnings in an effort to repay you for months of unemployment. You wave my attempts off and tell me to pay for the shopping. You won’t even let me pay half for rent anymore. It’s bizarre since you claim you need a flatmate to help you maintain the place - but you never seem to be short of funds. Perhaps it was more of a need to have another person in the same space. John once told me that during my stay with Greg, you were unbearable - restless and agitated.

Despite taking my time, I still get home earlier than normal. The curtains are drawn when I get home. It’s a bit odd. I see candles lit on the dining room table and on the fireplace mantle. I glance around fully expecting to see Irene dressed in my clothes with you gagged and hog- tied on the floor. We have not heard from her since the night we kicked her out of our sex room. Pride is a powerful motivator for her and we did hers in that night. 

I see a figure emerge from the kitchen - a woman - but not one I would expect in this setting. 

"Mrs. Hudson? What are you doing here?" Among candles in a dimly lit flat. 

She looks surprised to see me. “You’re home early.” 

Candles and Mrs. Hudson - in my flat. I blink a few times trying to process it all. 

"What are you doing home early?" I hear you behind me. You are dressed in a sharp suit - like for a date.

"I have half day Fridays," I answer. "What…"

"Have fun dear." Mrs. Hudson winks at you and leaves with a beaming smile.

"Okay, please explain. I know you have become a bit sex obsessed lately, but please tell me you are not trying seduce old women now." I shake my head.

You tilt your head and give me a queer look. “Lucy, please. You are more than enough woman for me. I have the marks across my back to prove it.”

I look around. “Then?”

"Do you know what today is?" You ask.

"Friday?" 

"A year ago, you moved in." Your nose scrunches. "I thought women remembered important dates."

The candles. The appropriate number of flowers. The smell of non-curried chicken emanating from the kitchen. I knew I moved in during the summer, but couldn’t tell you the date.

"This is an anniversary dinner?" I ask.

"If you want to call it that."

"Sherlock Holmes, are you becoming sentimental?" I grin.

 

 

"Perhaps." You wave off my teasing. 

I reach up to kiss your cheek. “Thank you. This is completely unexpected.”

You clear your throat. “I wanted to do something to mark the day my life changed….for the better.”

That deserves a proper kiss. I pull your mouth on mine. Never in a million years did I think a year ago that I would be locked in a passionate embrace with you. I wasn’t sure I’d last the year. Now I cannot imagine what my life would be like if I had taken the other flat. 

"Thank you," I say when we come up for air. "Whatever will you do to mark the first night we had sex?"

"I consider that first kiss as the beginning of the new phase of our partnership." 

"Oh you are the romantic," I tease.

Your face reddens. “I just know what I require to make a satisfactory life.”

Of course you would attempt to save your pride.

"What’s for dinner? I assume that Mrs. Hudson was here helping you cook."

"She cooked it out right. I simply asked for a recipe, and she insisted on doing itself." You shrug innocently.

"You knew she would do it for you," I cluck.

"Perhaps." You go to the kitchen to retrieve Mrs. Hudson’s work.

* *  *  * *  *  *

**Lucy**

You pant into the crook of my neck as your hips slow against me. Pulling away to gaze down at me, I kiss you hungrily in hopes to keep you moving. It’s been a few days since we’ve had sex. Your case keeps you up late at night. My job prevents early morning sessions when you do crawl into bed. I know you are humming when we kiss in the bathroom. Just a touch of my hand nearly finishes you right then. The moment we join, you gasp in relief and ecstasy. I know it will be over far too soon - and it is. I don’t blame you, but I am so close. 

You collapse beside me to catch your breath while my thighs still ache for you. I will not be able to sleep in this state yet I can’t wait for you to go to sleep. I roll over and reach into my bedside table. 

"What is that?" You eye the long handheld apparatus.

"What does it look like?" I am honestly very shocked that you have no idea what this is or the fact I have one nearby.

"Like tooth brush without bristles." You squint.

"It’s a sex toy. Have you never seen one?" 

"Why do you have it?" You prop yourself on an elbow. 

"For the nights I was alone or I need a little something more." I shrug casually. 

"More? Did you not climax?" You frown.

"No…..but women don’t always reach orgasm by sex," I say. 

"But…you made the noises. I felt your vagina contract….." you protest. 

"Yes, because I was close….but I didn’t reach my orgasm before you stopped." I brush the hair from your forehead. 

"I can still go on if you like."

"No need. Some nights, I just won’t get there with sex. It’s like the difference of oral sex and vaginal sex for you or me. Both feel amazing, but it is a different climax."

You are pouting like a child.

"What’s wrong?" I ask.

"Well, I find this highly unacceptable." You huff.

"Why?" I run my hands across your chest affectionately. Deep down, I know I should have waited for you to fall asleep before taking this to the bathroom.

"I am your lover and should be able to provide your every need," you state defiantly. 

"Love, you do. More than I could ever imagine and I’ve had a few intimate relationships. You’re knackered and I don’t expect you to rise to the occasion." I kiss you gently. 

You bite your lip. “Can I watch?”

I smile. “If you like.” 

The room fills with a humming sound. Your fingers whisper across my breast, teasing my nipple. I arch against your touch. I close my eyes as your mouth closes over my breast. 

"Can I help?" You growl in my ear.

"Yes," I moan. 

You take control of my toy. I meant for this to be a quick fix to my unresolved orgasm. Quickly, you learn the angle and movement needed to make my toes curl. Instead of a quick orgasm, I come multiple times while screaming your name. You are relentless in pleasing me - and I might combust into a pile of goo in this bed. 

Of course all this makes you grow hard against my leg. My pelvic area is over-stimulated but so ready for you. If you were exhausted 15 minutes, there is no sign of it as you plunge into me again. This time, the act of our fevered - if not almost chaotic - lovemaking gives me one final orgasm that just might break my quivering body. We are so blissed-out that we cannot even find the energy to kiss, but pant into each others’ mouth. We are slick with sweat and body fluids - but fall into a hard sleep still joined as one.

Soon after that night, the plain brown paper packages start to arrive at the flat. Inside, sex toys for my enjoyment, your enjoyment, things we can use together. I have introduced a new world to an addict. I could barely keep up with our sex life as it is without attachments and batteries, now I am exhausted.

We try different kinds of vibrators and stimulators. Neither of us enjoyed the nipple clamps. The experiment with paraffin nearly left you scarred for life. We sample different kinds of restraints and flavored lubricants. My dresser drawer was for books and tissues. Now it is overflowing with all things sex. 

You start an offline blog detailing and rating all the toys you’ve purchased. You rate your enjoyment, my enjoyment….how hard we experience an orgasm. It’s quite scientific and detailed. I expect that instead of a post-shag canoodle, that you will turn up with a clipboard. You have finally been able to marry your love for sex and science. Your eyes dance as we collaborate on this new venture.

"What exactly are going to do with this?" I read with my head on your shoulder as you enter my latest assessment. 

"Educate. This information would have been helpful when it came to embark on a sexual relationship with you." You tap away.

"Such a poet," I murmur.

You look down at me. “I just wanted to please you. I wanted to erase the memory of every man you had been with. I want to be the best.”

"I love your insecure side." I nuzzle closer. "And you should feel totally competent in your sexual prowess."

"You have the distinction of being the one to teach me. I’ve read that most women are inhibited in terms of sex. You are out of the norm."

"Don’t you forget it," I tease. "All other women hate sex. I’m the only one to ever enjoy it in history."

You chuckle softly.

"Save for Ms. Adler," I add.

"Ms. Adler enjoys power. To truly enjoy sex, you need to connect and share - two things she knows nothing about." Your voice is tinged with anger. You will never forgive her for nearly causing our end.

I don’t agree with your notion of needing connection every time. I’ve had at least one or two shags that had nothing about sharing much more than the need to get off - thanks to a fair number of cocktails. However, it’s better when you are in love. I love that we can do something that would cause my father to roll over in his grave, then declare our love before falling asleep.

"This is more interesting and informative than your prior blogs," I yawn.

"Dust is very informative," you protest. 

"But not as sexy." I tickle your navel. 

"Stop, you know that’s an erogenous zone on me. You should only proceed if you are prepared to deal with the consequences," you warn in that low purr that drives me mad with lust.

Sod sleep.

 


	41. Swings and retaining beams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go undercover

  **Lucy**

You let out a heavy sigh as you click through pages on your laptop. You’ve been at the desk since I left for work, came home, ate dinner and showered for bed. Your shirt is unbuttoned halfway down your chest and untucked from your pants. The curls are a mess, some sticking straight up from your head. I crane my neck to look over.

"How long will you keep at this?" I ask.

"Until something sticks," you grumble.

"What exactly are you looking at?" 

"Known associates of the deceased - the ones who apparently overdosed." Your eyes scan school photos, mug shots.

"You don’t think they were overdoses?" 

Your head shakes slightly. “I think they knew too much or were guinea pigs for a new drug.”

"New drug? Like crack?" 

You twist in your chair. “Something closer to crystal meth and cocaine. It’s undetected by police dogs and easy to hide for selling and smuggling. However, it is volatile and hard to stabilize. The batches are hard to control. Some are deadly and others benign.”

"Are you coming to bed soon?" I rest my hands on your shoulders as you click through photos and files.

Running a hand through your mop of curls, you sigh. “I don’t know…”

I pause behind you for a moment. Your shoulders are hard as rocks. Gently, I attempt to knead the tension from you. I know one way, but you might find that to be too much of a distraction. Your neck cranes back against my hand as a low groan escapes your lips. 

"That feels amazing."

 ”Wait. I know him.” I squint.

My eyes focus on the young man with spiky hair and dirty blond scruff. 

"What?" Your head snaps up. "What do you mean, you know him?"

"He works in my IT department. I don’t know his name. It’s Harry or Larry. 

You grab a pen and paper to jot down the facts I’ve given you. A few more photos flick by. 

"And that guy. He also works in IT but more programming." I point to a man with dreads. 

I end up sitting in your chair with you hanging over my shoulder as we go over the photos. We count ten InfoTech employees that are connected to people within the drug ring you’ve been investigating. Finally at 2 in the morning, I yawn for the last time. 

"I know you don’t require sleep, but I do. I have work tomorrow." I stand.

"Thank you for your help," you say sheepishly. 

"The great Sherlock Holmes being grateful?" I tease.

"Don’t make a big deal about it," you grumble. 

I kiss you quickly. “Good night.”

"Do you have a photo of me in your office?" 

"What?" I stop.

"On your desk. Don’t most females have photos of their betrothed showcased on their work desk, mostly to prove that they are considered desirable," you say.

"Sherlock, I don’t have a photo of you at all. I almost captured a lovely picture of you the night you came home blotto, but you vomited too soon," I smirk.

"So there are no photographs of us gracing your office?"

"There are no photos of us together in existence," I say.

You shrug. “I didn’t know if Mary gave you a photo of us together.”

You click through more files. Your voice sounds wounded almost - as if the reason I don’t have your mug on my desk is out of shame. I search for the words to smooth your ego. 

"Sherlock." I gaze beyond you. "Hey, I heard this guy hasn’t shown for work this week."

A few days later, your mobile rings at some ungodly hour. You mumble, dress and kiss me goodbye. Later that morning, an email goes out to all the employees of InfoTech that Randall, one of the chemists, has passed away. There are no details of his death, but the rumour mill churns that Randall is the body that was discovered this morning. The body that I’m sure drew you from our bed this morning. 

By mid-morning, the office was buzzing with theories as to what did Randall in. I have a good idea what befell Randall, but I keep my head down and work on the newest campaign for a new drug to treat arthritis InfoTech is about to release. I will hear all about it from you tonight.

As I’m pouring over head shots for the possible ‘face of arthritis’, there is a knock on my door.

"Come in," I call.

"Maintenance," a gruff voice growled. 

"I didn’t call maintenance," I shout back.

"You got leak in the ceiling?" the voice asks.

"It’s not me, thank you," I call. 

Two men in blue uniforms usher into my office. It takes me a moment to recognize you under a silly blue cap, snapping gum with a smirk. John’s uniform is a little big for him, and he looks as though he’s playing dress up in his father’s clothes. 

"What are you…." My mouth falls open.

John closes the door behind him. “Hello Lucy.”

You hold a finger to your lips. “Shhh. That coworker you mentioned last night…”

"Randall…"

"Whatever, he was found in a dumpster behind a warehouse," you say.

"That’s the rumour going around. But what are you doing here?" I have a feeling I know.

"Research. Something is going on here and I need to get to the bottom of it." You look around my office. "It’s a bit small."

"Mycroft couldn’t get me in as CEO. You should go before someone sees you in here." I move from behind my desk.

When you remove the ball cap, you ruffle your hair. “I don’t want you working here anymore. Something terrible is being created and covered up at InfoTech. You could be in danger.”

"But at least you have someone on the inside," John offers.

"I’m not about to use Lucy. Clearly the people behind this are ruthless," you snap.

My eyes pour over you in your polyester uniform with a crisp white t-shirt underneath. You look so blue collar, I have to admit that it is a bit of a turn on. 

"Can you keep that outfit?" I ask breathlessly.

You turn to see the hunger in my eyes. A small smile plays on the corner of your lips. “You like this look, eh?”

"Very rugged…." My voice drops.

"This is a very nice desk." You move closer, your heat equaling mine. 

"I’m still here, you know," John sighs heavily. 

You lean forward to capture my lips in a quick kiss. “I’ll bring it home.”

"Be careful," I say seriously. 

You wink. “I’m always careful.”

John shakes his head behind you and mouths ‘No, he’s not.’

I know this as well and it makes me worry.

*  *  *  *  *

**Lucy**

I toss myself inside the flat, my arms aching from heavy bags of groceries. I asked you to go to the store yesterday. You came home with jam and milk - nothing more. 

The Telly is on when I walk in. You must be home. Probably the bathroom or maybe changing in the bedroom. I go about my business of putting away the shopping and cleaning up what appears to be an abandoned experiment. I hear creaking above my head. 

"Sherlock?" I call. A knot forms in my stomach. 

We’ve had too many intruders in our flat for me to feel good about creaking boards or bumps in the night.

"I’m upstairs!" you call. "Come on up!"

"I need to start supper," I say. 

"This will take just a moment."

"That’s not a ringing endorsement," I say as I climb the stairs to our boudoir. 

I expect to find you sprawled on the bed with a new toy to try. When a new package arrives, you are eager. I’m not prepared for the sight that greets me when I walk in the door. 

"What the bloody hell is that?" I ask.

There you are - suspended from the ceiling in some kind of padded swinging apparatus - fully dressed in your suit. 

"It’s a swing. This one received high marks for comfort and pleasure." Your arms and legs flail in different directions as you attempt to make eye contact with me.

"It doesn’t look very comfortable." I glance up at the beam where it is fastened. "Or sturdy."

You frown. “Nonsense. It’s a retaining beam.” You spin slowly. 

I only wish I had a camera with me. This is quite a sight. I know John wold get a chuckle from it.

"Fancy a go?" You raise an eyebrow.

"I’m not sure it will support us both." I scratch my ear taking in the apparatus. "And I don’t think I’m ready for something like this."

"Perhaps some wine will help," you suggest.

"I think a lot of wine will help be required," I say before heading back downstairs. 

I hear wood splitting, a thump and then an “Oaf!”from your lips. When I turn around, you are tangled in a heap on the floor. 

"Are you all right?" I rush back in.

 

 

"Nothing hurt except my ego. Perhaps I should have purchased the steel stand." You scramble up from the floor. 

"I think we can wait on that," I suggest. "This might be a bit beyond us."

"It’s because I kept the suit on, isn’t it?" you ask. 

I laugh. “It didn’t help. But if you were naked, you’d just look like an albino spider caught in a web.”

You chuckle too. “Point taken.”

*  *  *  *  *

**Sherlock**

  
For the next few weeks, John and I pose as janitors, cafeteria workers and HVAC engineers. Lucky for us that it coincides with a rather important marketing project that requires you to work late. You give us access as we investigate files, lockers and offices. The death toll from the new synthetic drug ‘Fire’ climbs - reaching out from chemists and hackers to housewives and teenagers. 

I know it’s dangerous to have you aid us. You could lose your job or worse - they could find out and kill you. My stomach churns thinking that I am putting your life which is essentially my life in jeopardy. Yet, the danger and my uniform fuels a passion between us. Most nights, I sneak back to your office to seduce you over your desk, your visitors chair, your desk chair. That was how your favorite mug ended up shattered on the floor. 

Every day, we get a little closer to climbing to the top of the ladder which leads all the way to China and Japan. It leads to Black Lotus and beyond. As I collect evidence, I ask Lestrade to place a man on you. Every criminal in the world knows to get to me they would have to go through you. I could be shot, stabbed or tortured and it would be nothing if something happened to you again. As the danger mounts, you don’t care. Instead you remind me every day that you are staying with me no matter what - mastermind criminal or your mother. Nothing would tear us apart. 

~~~~~

The press is ridiculous. You blink against the flashes as reporters shout out questions - mostly about our relationship than the case itself. Over thirty people are arrested thanks to our hard work. Those that were not rounded up fled the country. Business is England might be closed, but there was still America. As Lestrade announces the drug ring has been mortally wounded, we stand side by side. You are referred to as my ‘Girl Friday’ and titles like ‘Crime Fighting Lovers’ are splashed across smut rags. John, my real partner in crime, stands to the side and looks a bit dejected. His arms cross in front of him as he watches with a sour face.

"You look like a jilted lover," I mutter to him.

"Well I am the one that actually helps you. I almost miss the days when they thought we were a couple." He pouts. 

He just wants a little recognition. After all, he is the one that is running after me through the streets of London.

"She looks better in a dress," I wink. 

"That’s right. Objectify me." You nudge me. 

For what seems like days - almost weeks, we are followed and featured in several newspapers. Morning news shows what to interview us. If we didn’t have a photo of us before, there are several. Mrs. Hudson has taken to framing them for us. The smaller articles, she places in a scrapbook. 

"Most couples have Polaroids," you muse one day. 

"Most couple store their photos on jump drives." I don’t look up from my latest experiment on sexual lubricants. 

 

 

We celebrate the downfall (and the fact that you get a promotion) at Angelo’s with John, Mary, Lestrade and his date. It’s a good sign that he is dating, but when his eyes wash over you - I know he still pines for you. I can’t blame him. For once, I place myself in his shoes. It must be unbearable to sit across from a former lover and not be able to touch them. My heart thunders under the sheer notion that you would be gone from me. I wake in a pool of sweat with those thoughts some nights. Sometimes, it is an enemy that takes you from me. Sometimes, you simply walk away. In those moments, like now with Lestrade, I am fully aware that caring is a huge disadvantage. I know how soon my world can be brought to its knees just in the eye of another person.

Dinner is pleasant enough. Lestrade’s date is not as vapid as I thought. People pause at our table to get autographs and offer a ‘thanks’. You are gracious and I am just barely civil. I look forward to going home after you slip me a note telling me to prepare myself for later. We toast with champagne and drink wine. I leave Angelo’s feeling warm and lighthearted. 

Once home, you lead me upstairs. It will not be a typical night of love-making. I only wish the swing had worked. You instruct me to undress and assume the position. I happily comply and am delighted when your hands join mine to remove my clothing. In fact, I abandon my task and allow you to do it for me. I enjoy watching you disrobe me. The widening of your eyes like you haven’t seen my body for the last six or seven months. Like every night is the first time. 

I lay on the bed and stretch my arms above my head. “Or do you want me on my stomach?”

Your fingers dance across your full lips as you contemplate. “No, back is fine. I want access to everything.”

Your voice is seductive and hungry. In turn it adds to my arousal. I watch you slip out of your dress - donning my latest gift of red lace bra and knickers. Monday through Friday - it’s mostly cotton as you trudge off to work . Weekends are for satin and lace. 

I am comfortably restrained and blindfolded. You have mastered the element of surprise - not an easy task with me. You kiss and nip. You lick and suck.  Then I hear footsteps drawing away to down the stairs. 

Well, that would be unfair if you were to leave me here. 

When you return, you resume touching, kissing, nuzzling. I gasp as something cold and wet surrounds my erection. I feel the icy sting of ice sliding along me. Parts of your mouth are hot and the mixture nearly does me in then. 

I hear the snap of latex and smell permeates the air. What could you use…..there is pressure under my scrotum. 

I enjoy the sensation of being explored by you. My hips arch into your touch of their own volition. I had read that what made homosexuality so alluring was the prostate being massaged by a partner’s penis. I never realized that kind of pleasure could exist in a heterosexual relationship. Your free hand massages my erection - and being worked from both ends - for minutes I forget everything. My name. How many kinds of bees exist. The square root of anything. What I ate for dinner. There is a loud ringing in my ears and the sound of my voice - several octaves higher than usual- calling out the one thing I do remember - your name. 

My eyes are open but I cannot see anything. It’s just white light and my skin is on fire. It takes several minutes for the panting to stop. 

"Lucy, Jesus," I utter. 

You give me a very satisfied smirk. “I thought you were going to call ‘milk’.”

I blink. “Enjoying that doesn’t make me a homosexual, does it?”

"Only if you were imagining a man doing it to you," you peel off the glove and grab sone tissues for me.

"Perhaps you with some kind of strap-on device." I suggest.

"Like the swing, that might be out of my depth. And you might be too tall for me." You look me over, contemplating it.

"A discussion for another time."

"What’s wrong?" You see the disappointment on my face.

"I have no way to repay you tonight. I don’t have anything that could possibly make you feel like I feel now," I sigh.

"And how is that?" You unfasten my hands.

"Blissful." I run a hand through my damp hair. A flush comes to my cheeks. "Lucy, I think you just shagged me."

You chuckle. “I guess I did. I guess it’s my job to roll over without a word and fall asleep.”

I pull you into a deep a kiss that’s less about desire now and more about affection. “What can I do for you?”

"Take a shower and give me a massage." You say. 

"You don’t want me to service you?" I lick my lips.

"I want to be comfortable in my bed. I want my sore muscles kneaded. And if I know you, you’ll be ready to make sweet love to me in fifteen minutes."


	42. Happy birthday to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock being Sherlock

**Sherlock**

  


 

My shoulders ache from 18 hours at the lab today. The fall of the synthetic drug cartel has brought a out a rash of criminal activity. Everyone is scrambling to take control of the underground gangs and mafia. Lestrade summons me almost every other day. Today, I commandeer the lab at St. Bart’s for research and experiments. No one bothers me and I get to work in blessed solitude. At six, I remember to send you a text.

Will be late. Making great progress. Don’t wait up. Love - SH 

You reply. 

Thanks for letting me know - L

I’m unbothered until an hour later. Several texts from Mycroft. Angrily, I silence my mobile and place it in my suit jacket pocket, hanging in the closet. It won’t bother me there.

It’s after one in the morning when I creep up the stairs quietly to not wake Mrs. Hudson and you. The flat is quiet and dimly lit as I enter. You’ve left the kitchen light on. Something however is definitely off. The air is rich with the scent of wine, beer and alcohol. I smell dinner, but it’s a mixture of many foods - meats, cheeses, curry, and something fried. The dining table houses two wine glasses. Floating between our chairs is a brightly coloured Mylar balloon with Happy Birthday on it. 

I freeze. It’s not my birthday. It’s not John’s. I try to remember when yours is. I remember a chill in the air from that you came home polluted from karaoke. Was it your birthday? When was it that you were upset that I are your birthday cake? I press my fingers to my temples. 

Last year, I was trying my best to ignore you. I didn’t want to contemplate why I felt warm when you went out with a man or why my mouth was dry when you stood too close. I don’t recall you ever mentioning your birthday to me in the last year and some odd months we’ve lived together.

No, I could not have missed something that important. And you would not have tossed your own party, would you? Remembering the barrage of texts I received tonight, I take my phone out. 

Where are you? - Mycroft

You should really make a better effort to check your phone - Mycroft

I hope you are on your way - Mycroft

Where in the bloody hell are you - JW

It’s 8. You should be here by now - JW

I told you the party was at 8. Did you not hear? JW 

They continue. From John, Lestrade and even Molly sent a few texts. I run a hand through my hair. It was your birthday and how in the world did I miss this? You had people over to celebrate and I was not here. How did this happen? How did I get so wrapped up in my world that I missed the most important day?

I see a floral arrangement on the table. “Happy birthday, love Mom”. Christ, even though you haven’t spoken to your mother since that dinner, she sent you flowers. However, your lover completely forgot. No, he didn’t even bloody know. I know we spoke this morning. There was no mention. I search over my conversations in the last few days. John mentioned seeing me, but when was that? Did he talk about this party? Did he even talk about your birthday? For the life of me, I cannot recall any meaningful conversation with anyone in the last few days that did not include a crime scene or evidence. 

"Hello," your detached voice floats down the hall. "Long day?"

My heart jumps into my throat. Words fail me as this is by far my biggest failure to date. “Lucy, I didn’t…”

You hold up your hand - you want to hear to nothing I have to say. “I know. It’s work and it blocks everything else out.” 

"You never mentioned your birthday or a party…." I offer up that feeble defense.

"To be fair, I had no idea about the party either. Mary took me out for drinks, said we should call round to the flat as you and John were here. We’d all go for dinner. When I came home, everyone was here - well - almost everyone."

I wince. “Lucy, I swear…”

 

 

"John said he told you. That you and he actually had a conversation about it." You tilt your head. "You aren’t….you know…using again?"

"What?" My eyes fly open. "What would make you think that?"

"Losing days. Forgetting conversations." You shrug and peer into my face for evidence. 

As you step into the light, I see my favorite blue dress hugging your frame. My heart sinks so far, it might drop through the floor. 

"No, I have not being using. Lestrade has been coming to me quite a bit lately. I have three cases that I’m working on simultaneously. So, I’ve talked to John, but I’m afraid to admit that if it didn’t have to do one of the three cases, I didn’t retain. I must have thought he was speaking about Mary’s party."

To be honest, I had tuned him out completely. He could have been on fire, and I might not have known. 

You sigh. “I understand. This is how you are.”

I recall Lestrade warning of you of my faults at John’s wedding. “I’ll bet Lestrade was happy to say ‘I told you so’.”

You look away and I know that he did. “He was here with his new girlfriend.”

"Oh I’m sure. He’d be only too happy to take advantage of my messing up," I scowl.

"Sherlock, you have missed the point completely. This is not about Greg swooping in. This is about me - not you. Do you know what it’s like to look towards the door every time it opens and not have it be your partner? To have everyone at your birthday party feeling pity for you?"

You walk to the calendar and point to the date. “Look at it Sherlock. This is my birthdate. Put that in your useful information file, because if we are standing here next year, you might want to recall it.”

Your last words sting. I try not to respond to them, I know I’ve hurt you and you are not speaking rationally. 

"I’m sorry." I kneel down before you to bury my face in your stomach. 

Your hands rest on top of my head, but they don’t comb through my hair. “I’m going to bed. I’ve had some wine and I’m tired.”

Your voice is dejected, exhausted and disappointed.

"Do you want me to sleep upstairs?" My voice shakes. 

Anger clouds your face as you open your mouth to reign hellfire upon me. I brace myself, but it never comes. Frustrated, you sigh again. “You don’t have to. Good night Sherlock.”

There’s no smile, hug, kiss or loving pat like every other night. Just your sad eyes turning away from me as they head to bed. 

I go to the kitchen and begin my attrition. I do the washing, and tidy the den. It takes me a little over an hour. I look at my phone again. 20 text messages and 5 voicemails. Bollocks. I half consider giving you your space tonight and sleep on the Chesterfield. That should be ample punishment. 

Instead, I quietly undress and slip into bed beside you. I lie still and wait for you to kick me out. You’ve gone rigid under the bedsheet. You are not asleep. Carefully, I inch closer.

"Lucy." My voice shakes with uncertainty. "I’m so so sorry. I hate that I hurt you. I just want you to be happy, love."

I see your muscle relax a bit. 

"Happy birthday." I touch your hair gingerly. "I love you."

You move back, closing the gap between us a bit. Eventually, I get the courage to press my chest to you while draping an arm across you. I know I’m not forgiven, but you haven’t kicked me out of the bed.

 

*  *  *     *  *  *  *

**Sherlock**

We lie awake most of the night. I hold you close and will you to forgive me. You don’t melt into me like usual. Yes, you allow me hold you, but you do not reciprocate. 

Eventually yesterday’s marathon lab session catches up and I fall asleep. I don’t wake until I hear footsteps on the floor. One eye opens to see you fully dressed before me.

"I’m off to work. Thanks for cleaning." Your face is still tense.

"Listen, about last night…" I start.

"Please Sherlock, I don’t want to go over it now." You run a hand over your weary face. 

"Fine," I say, my tone a little off. 

Your eyes ice over as you turn to grab your jumper. 

I prop myself up on one elbow. “You could have left me more clues.”

You still. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

"You know how I am during a case," I say feebly. "This isn’t new."

"I do know and I would say I’m very tolerable of your long silences, your rambling to no one at all, your inability to call home when you’re going to be late, your dashing off at a moments notice - all of it. John assured me that you knew about last night. He swore you discussed it." 

I sit up. “Well, he should have made certain. He knows I only listen to half of what he says.”

Your face falls. “Or what anyone says. It’s not his responsibility nor mine. You can’t brush this off on anyone. You failed Sherlock.”

Those words feel like a slap across my face. I’m angry, but at myself.

 

 

 

Unfortunately, I’m not good at this emotion and lash out. “Maybe you should have stayed with Greg.” I put emphasis on his name. “I bet he’d be the perfect lapdog you’re looking for!”

Your fists clench like you want to hit. I hear your jaw click with tension. But as quick as the fire hits your eyes, it extinguishes. The passion fades leaving empty, disappointment.

"Perhaps you’re right. I’m late for work."

There is no kiss, no words - just the sound of the front door clicking to close behind you and my thundering heart.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

**Sherlock**

"Bloody hell, I’m coming!" John calls. "Oh, it’s you."

"John, I’m in trouble," I push past him.

"Come in," he mutters. "I’m not doing anything and can be at your service."

"That was sarcasm, correct?"

"Would it matter either way?" He sighs.

"Probably not." I admit. 

After you left, my mind went to dark places of self-doubt. A world where I did think you were better off without me. I envisioned telling you to leave in order to save you from my selfishness, my self-absorption. I pictured you crying and cursing me. You’d have months of depression until you found someone else. But you would find someone new. You would move on. However, I would perish if I set you free. I’d be lost.

"Tea?" He asks.

I run my fingers through my hair. “Please.”

"So, you got home about 1:30 then?" He puts a kettle on.

"How did you….did she text you?" I ask.

"I asked her to." Folding his arms, he leans against the counter. "So you honestly do not remember our conversation yesterday? The one about the party and your girlfriend’s birthday?"

I wince. “I hate the term girlfriend.”

"Focus, Sherlock!" He sighs. 

 

 

"No, I recall nothing from our discussion yesterday if it did not pertain to the Owen case." I sulk. 

"I would have thought Lucy’s name would have resonated." He pours the hot water into two mugs.

I bury my face in my hands. “I need your help. I….failed miserably.” 

He sits across from me. “I wish you could have seen her face. When we sang to her, it was the saddest smile I’ve ever seen.”

His words slice into me. “I told her she’d be better off with Lestrade.”

He throws his hands up. “For a genius, you are utterly thick!”

"I know!" I exclaim. "I regretted the moment I said it."

We sit in silence. “How do I make this right?”

"Well, you have two things to make up for - the party and your stupid mouth."

I take a flat box out of my pocket. “I bought her a present.”

"That’s a start," he opens it. A frown creases his brow. "What is this?"

"A necklace. According to Google, jewelry is the most desired gift for women." I shrug. 

"An ‘S’?" He asks. 

"Yes, for Sherlock. It will remind her of me," I say brightly.

"You’re hard to forget," he mutters. "Sherlock, doesn’t this reek of ownership?" 

"What? It has diamonds. I know she likes diamonds." I see him open his mouth. "And I’m NOT prepared for that gesture."

He shakes his head. “It’s nice, but it would be nicer if it was something having to do with her and not you. Find out what she likes. This looks like a branding.”

My faces falls. “Maybe she is better off without me.”

"Hey," John snaps. "Enough of that. You love her and would disintegrate without her. Letting her go is not an option. And she’d be livid hearing you prattle on like a soap opera star!"

It takes a second cup of tea to squelch my self-loathing. I resolve to return your gift and give some thought to its replacement. John instructs me to listen and not interrupt. I may have to take it on the chin, but I do deserve it - to some degree. You give me a wide berth - and John reminds me that most people would not be as patient.

After a few hours and some more mugs of tea, I’m home with flowers at least. I make certain that I’m back before you get home from work. I arrange dinner reservations for us. I’m prepared to shoulder your anger and disappointment. I’m ready to be whatever you need.

I wait. Six o’clock comes and goes. Then seven. By eight o’clock and we’ve missed our reservation. This is when I worry. I recall our conversation this morning, looking for clues. Would you leave again? Were my words that harsh that you’ve run away again? I stalk to the bedroom. The bed is made. I know I didn’t do that. The jumper from this morning is draped over the clothes bin. You were home earlier. How did I miss that? Once again, it proves that when it comes to you, I cannot predict or deduce anything. 

I feel momentary relief when I discover your suitcase still in the closet along with all your clothes. But where are you?

I check my mobile. Nothing. My fingers hover over the keyboard. 

Are you all right? SH

I wait for about twenty minutes before I open my laptop - anything to distract me. 

I haven’t heard from her. What should I do? SH

Did you call? JW 

It immediately goes to voicemail. 

Voicemail - SH

Don’t panic - JW

I’m finding it hard not to - SH

At 9:30pm, I lie on the chesterfield and count the cracks in the ceiling. As angry as you were, this is unacceptable behaviour. It’s common courtesy to let your partner know when you are late.

By 9:35, I see the irony in the situation. How many times did I have you wait on my call or text? Is this revenge?

By 10pm, my eyes prickle with frustration. Have you gone to Lestrade’s? I think of texting him, but I don’t want him to gloat. This is the second time I’ve lost you. Or worse, what if you are there? What if you took my flippant remark to heart and went to cry on his shoulder? I know he’s been waiting for me to gaff. 

Are WE all right? SH

The text seems desperate because it is. My phone lays on my chest as I squeeze my eyelids so tightly I see the veins dance. 

10:08 as I’m about to explode, I hear the door. For a moment, I wonder if its John checking on me. But the footfalls are yours and are a bit sluggish from wine. 

I sit up and take deep breaths in an attempt to calm myself. 

I don’t look up as you walk through the door. 

"Oh, you’re home," you say.

"Where else would I be?" I ask.

"In the lab. Chasing someone. At a crime scene." You shrug and hang your coat on the hook.

"No, I was here, worrying a hole in my stomach lining over you." I do not hide my annoyance.

You stand before me. “Worrying?” You take one look at my red eyes and wild hair. “Jesus, what’s wrong?”

"Did you lose your mobile?" I spit.

"No, my battery is dead. I forgot to charge it last night." You pull a blank mobile from your pants pocket. "I gather you rang."

"And texted. I expected you home hours ago."

"I told you not to wait on me for dinner. I met Rachel tonight," you say. The look in your eye says, you didn’t listen to me - again.

"When did you say this?" I ask.

"This morning. I told you I would be late."

I shake my head violently. “No. You never said that. If you mentioned the morning before today then I might have missed that fact. However, I remember everything you said this morning.”

You frown, but I see the edges of doubt creep in. “I’m sure that I mentioned it.”

"Was it before or after you said you would be better off with Lestrade?" My voice cracks, betraying my emotions. 

"I never said that. Look, we both said some stupid things," you say.

"I never say stupid things," I counter.

You raise your eyebrows. 

"Maybe I misspoke," I concede.

"You really had no idea where I was?"

I open my phone to my text messages and hand it over to you. Your eyes soften a little.

"I thought you were leaving again," I say quietly.

"Over one argument?" You sit beside me.

"You left before without one."

Your hand rests on my arm. “Sherlock, I’m not leaving you. And I’m not running to cry on Greg’s shoulder. We are going to fight. Sometimes you’ll hurt me and sometimes I’ll push back. At the end of the day, I’m coming home to sort it out.”

"I know last night was a failure and I would love nothing more to rewind time." My hand covers yours. "And if you know I’m going to hurt you, why stay?"

"Because I love you, silly git." You smile.

"In my defense, I attempted to make it right. I got flowers and made reservations for dinner at the White Elephant," I gesture to the appropriate sized bouquet on the table.

"For tonight?" You look at my rumpled suit. "You dressed up."

 

 

I look away. “I wanted to apologise properly.”

You look at the floor. “It’s possible that I forgot to mention dinner with Rachel. Maybe I was getting revenge, subconsciously.”

"Touche." 

Your fingers lace through mine. “I’m not as mad as I was. And if we argue, it doesn’t mean we’re over. This is what couples do.”

"They aren’t easy," I muse distantly.

"What, relationships?" You ask.

"Yes," I nod with my eyes fixed ahead.

"At times they are. Other times, they need work or compromise at least." Your fingers loosen their grip. "Are you having doubts?"

"Yes and no." My words drive some distance between us. "I have no doubt that I want you. I just worry about the day I fail so much that you leave. What happens to me then?"

You move closer again and squeeze my hand. “I won’t leave without some discussion. If I have those thoughts, I will let you know so we can work on it.”

I think of this flat without you. I’d burn it to ground to release the ghost of us. Perhaps that seems melodramatic, but nothing I do is in halves. 

"I’m sorry about yesterday. I’m trying to make it up to you. I just need a little more time." My hands swallow yours.

"You can start with one of your famous massages," you say. 

I know I’ve been forgiven - at least a little.

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

**Lucy**

We stare at one another. I say nothing, as she is the one that requests this visit. 

"You’re happy then?" Mum asks.

I nod. “I am. He’s a good man.”

Mum has come by after weeks of silence. I have to thank you for giving me the strength to stand up to her overbearing ways. 

I leave out the forgotten birthday. I’m still waiting for my ‘make-up’ night. You mutter something about looking for the perfect present - even though I tell you it does not matter. 

 

"I guess I don’t see it." She shakes her head.

She wouldn’t be the first. I’ve spent many months trying to explain you to people. They don’t get it either. What they see is your arrogance and rudeness. They don’t know your kindness, or your wit. They don’t witness the first minutes of morning when you roll over and smile at me. They have never seen your vulnerability - the fear and fragility when you’ve done something you think is unforgivable to me. Then the relief and love when I reach for you. You collapse into me in the knowledge I will not reject you. It’s hard to convey all this after you’ve taken them to bits over their eating disorders, depression, and alcoholic tendencies. But you are trying. 

"I don’t need you to, Mum. Like it or not, he’s with me to stay."

"You see marriage?" 

To be honest, I don’t think of our future in those terms. The thought of you dropping to one knee and asking for my hand is ridiculous. If you ever did it, you’d say it over tea and very matter-of-fact. More like a command. ‘It makes fiscal sense for us to marry, so we shall’. I smile as I think of this. I knew that walking into this. Being with you, I could be forfeiting the storybook life I had set for myself. A big wedding dress. A house with children. 

"I don’t know, Mum. I know I’m your only hope for grandchildren, but I’m not sure it’s in my cards." The truth hurts her. 

She sighs. “It’s not what I had hoped for you, but if you are happy with him, I’ll try.” 

"That’s all I ask," I say.

We settle into talking abbot everything and nothing. She regales me with all the gossip surrounding her friends. She cannot resist to tell me of the sons that are recently divorced. Yet she doesn’t press it. 

 

 

I hear your footsteps on the stairs. Should I have warned you Mum was here? As the door creaks open, Mum’s body tenses. Her relaxed posture stiffens as her eyes shift to the door. You whisk in and glance around the room. Quickly, you hide your surprise to see her sitting across from me.

 

 

  
"Afternoon ladies," you regard.

  
"Hello Sherlock," she says amiably enough.

  
A smile relaxes your face. I know it’s not genuine, but it looks it. “Hello Anna.”

  
"Mum stopped by for tea," I say.

  
Your eyes search me for any indication how the visit is going. You ease your stance. “Wonderful. Can I get you something, Anna?”

  
"No thank you. I should go. Leave you two to catch up from the day." She stands.

  
You purse your lips. “Would you like to join us for supper?”

  
I think you’ve gone mad.

  
Mum blushes. Perhaps she is starting to see your charm. “Oh, no thank you. Maybe another night.”

  
You nod your head. I notice you keep your distance from me - not wanting to claim me by physical proximity.

  
I walk Mum to the door. “Than you for coming by.”

  
"Thank you for tea." She pulls me into a hug.

  
You and Mum eye each other warily - neither really ready to trust this new truce.

  
"Have a good evening, Anna," you nod.

  
With a somewhat tight smile, she leaves.

  
"She asked to come around," I say when I know Mum has cleared the building.

  
You cock your head. “She misses you. Granted, she doesn’t know how to deal with the new you.”

  
I frown. “I haven’t changed.”

  
You smile. “Yes, you have. At least in regards of how you handle yourself around her. There’s an air of confidence that wasn’t there before. Whether you were aware, you silently sought approval from her. Today, you did not.”

  
I hadn’t thought about it that way. Maybe I was comfortable in my life right now. Sure, we have our bumps and bruises. My forgotten birthday. Your unrelenting jealousy of Greg. And there is the communication, but you are getting better.

  
I chuckle. “Who would have thought that you’d be good for me?”

  
You shoot me a wounded look. “Well…I did.”

  
I wrap my arms around you. “We are an unlikely pair.”

  
"Maybe to those who don’t know us. I think we compliment each other. Good and bad. Hot and cold. Heart and mind," you say.

 


	43. Say 'Cheese!'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when the world is invited into your bedroom?

SH

I hear the footsteps clomp until they stop at my door. It’s John, and he’s panting.

  
“Sherlock!” He bangs impatiently on the door.

  
I rub my eyes and look at my white sheet gathered around me. What time is it? I blink at my watch. Ten in the morning.

  
The banging continues, growing more frantic.

  
“Coming!” I bellow.

 

 

  
I’m trying to shake off the sleep as I sit up. Last night we experimented with another new toy. We were up for most of the night, waves of pleasure washing over and over. I barely pried an eye open to say goodbye was you swept out the door to work. I did manage to shuffle down to the sofa where I succumbed to sleep again.

  
“What?” I fling the door open.

  
“Sherlock..,” John frowns. “It’s not Tuesday.”

  
“It was a late night.” I move away from the door.

  
“Case?” he asks.

  
I smirk. “No.”

  
He waves a hand. “Yeah yeah. Look, where’s Lucy?”

  
I notice he’s clutching a newspaper.

  
“She should be at work,” I say.

  
“Shit, thought so.” He pulls out his phone. “Yeah? Greg? Are you there yet? You have her? Okay, we’ll meet you.”

  
“What is this about, John?” I feel my temper rising, panic itching at the back of my throat.

  
“I’ve been ringing for the last hour,” he says. “Where were you?”

  
“I was asleep. My mobile is in the bedroom. What is going on?”

  
“Brace yourself,” he warns. He rolls out the newspaper in front of me.

 

 

  
It takes me a moment to focus on what I’m seeing. ‘Sherlock and His Kinky Gal Friday' reads the headline. Below that is blurry video still of a man tied to a bed and a woman looming with a riding crop. I recognize the blindfold, the head board, the crop, your garters, my lust filled face. This occurred the first night we entered my old room. The first night we took each other a part to forge something stronger. Here it is for public mocking and scrutiny.

  
“There’s more,” he says somberly. Turning the page, there are more stills of our love life behind closed doors. Over the table, on the couch - but most of them in my room where we live out our darkest desires. How?

  
My eyes flick to the corners of the sitting room. Mycroft? I know we’ve always joked about his recording our every movement but could he really?

  
Then you pop into my head. You’ve gone to work completely unaware.

  
“Lucy!” I gasp.

  
“Greg has her,” John says.

  
My head whips around. “What?”

  
“Greg saw it first. He tried calling you, he said. When he couldn’t get you, he rang me. I’m supposed to be at work right now.” he glances at his watch.

  
I hear his words but I can only think of you. “Where is she?”

  
“Greg took her to Mycroft’s. The reporters had turned up at Infotech.”

  
I run my hand over my face, hating the fact that Lestrade is your saviour. I imagine his hand over yours while you wonder how different things could have been. With him, there would be no scandal, just an easy relationship. Not like our sloppy coupling.

  
“Sherlock..” John starts.

  
“I’ve got to get there.” I take the stairs two at a time, nearly tripping over the sheet.

  
The scent of last night’s sex hits my nose. I see the evidence in the twisted sheets on the bed and discarded bottle of lubrication. We’ve been breached. Frantically, my eyes move around the room. The bookshelves, the wardrobe, the curtains. All these things hide cameras. My head spins like a washer as scenes of our sex life flash before  my eyes. I feel a twinge in my trousers just thinking of you stretched out before me - even now as our lascivious acts have made the tabloids.

  
I need a shower, but don’t have time.  Clothes fly from my wardrobe. Outside the window, I hear the gathering crowd. I grab my mobile and look down at the screen. Several missed calls from Greg, Mycroft and John. A handful of text messages, but nothing from you.

  
Are you all right? - SH

  
My last glance around, I try to ascertain where this camera might be. Later - it will have to wait. I need to get to you.

  
I pound down the stairs and sweep to the window. A throng of reporters mill about the stoop.

  
“Mycroft has sent his car. I wish we had a back way out of here,” John sighs.

  
“I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of,” I sniff.

  
I am a bit glad that the swing never worked out. My phone buzzes and my hear leaps.

  
Car is there - MH

  
I close my eyes. Why haven’t you responded?

  
Is Lucy there yet - SH

  
“Ready?” John asks.

 

 

  
I give a quick nod. “Do you realise that you referred to this flat in a possessive manner?”

  
“What?”

  
“You said ‘I wish WE had a back way’ like you still lived here.”

  
You rub your neck. “I guess I feel like it’s still mine when I’m saving your hide.”

  
I smile - bit sadly. I know this is bad. Not for me. Everyone is still getting over the shock that someone has sexual intercourse with me. It’s unpleasant for you as coworkers and friends will see the photos of us, of you owning me - of me pleasing you.

  
Turning my collar up, I barrel down the stairs with John hot on my heels. I push through the clicks of cameras and tsunami of questions.

  
“Do you record your sexual exploits?”

  
“Is she aware you taped her?”

  
“Do you consider yourself a sexual deviant?”

  
“What’s the freakiest thing you’ve done?”

  
"Did you steal her from DI Lestrade?"

 

 

  
I say nothing and keep my eyes focused on the car. Within twelve steps, I’m safely tucked in the back. It will take approximately eighteen minutes to get to Mycroft’s if he has altered traffic patterns for me. I look to my phone. Nothing.

  
Out of the corner of my eye, I see John stealing glances in my direction. His eyebrows knit in confusion and awe. I was always asexual to him. Yes, he pushed us together but if he did imagine anything growing between us, he never considered sex. Now he has seen it in blurry coloured photos just how sexual Sherlock Holmes can be.

  
I look out the window when my phone buzzes.

  
Lucy is here - MH

  
My grip tightens on my phone. I itch to type back ‘why isn’t she returning my texts? How close is Lestrade to her right now?’

  
I just need to get to you.

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

 

SH

John and I don’t speak. I see his mouth open to say something, but he stares out the window and clasps it shut. Still, my phone remains silent.

It takes 33 minutes to get to Mycroft’s. We zip down side streets to lose reporters following us. Mycroft’s home, once historically mine, looms beyond the security gates. I haven’t returned to this house in over ten years. The palatial homestead has been in the Homes family for centuries. Mycroft has no qualms being its current caretaker. I prefer the comfort of Baker Street.

The car barely comes to a stop before I sprint to the front door. I don’t wait for Mycroft’s butler to let me in, I nearly tear the heavy wooden door from its hinges. I hear voices in the library.

 

 

 

There you are in the library on the leather sofa. Your knees are pressed together with your head down cradled in your hand. The other hand is being held tightly by none other than Lestrade. My stomach tightens. You sense my arrival, and your body stiffens. Lestrade’s grip tightens.

Without hesitation, I kneel before you.

"Lucy." You look so fragile that I fear touching you.

 

 

Make-up stains your cheeks as you look up at me. “Sherlock…did you….did you do this?”

I blink. On some level, I know I am to blame. If I was not who I am, this would never happen. You’d never be kidnapped. Your life would never be turned on its ear.

"Did you….record us?" Your voice is hoarse.

"Heavens no," I gasp. "Never. I know how things like this can be used."

You look to John for reaffirmation.

 

 

"He’s an annoying sod but he’d never do that," John states.

Your shoulders sag, no longer defensive. “Who would do this?”

"I see you’ve arrive." Mycroft’s voice purrs behind me.

I wheel around and throw my fist against his cheek. He stumbles backwards in shock. John rushes to restrain me. Lestrade is off the sofa to referee.

"You bastard!" I rage. "How dare you install cameras in my flat! How long have they been there? Since the drugs?"

Mycroft straightens his back. “Brother. I assure you that those cameras are not mine. However, they would have been a good idea years ago.”

"If you didn’t put them there…"

"We will find the person, Sherlock." Mycroft nods in your direction.

He’s right. There is time for that later. I kneel by your side again. Cautiously, my fingers reach for your cheek but do not make contact. You stifle a sniffle.

"There are so many…." you say.

I follow your eyes to the coffee table. It is not just one newspaper. Every single paper has a different video capture of us.

"Where did they get this photo?" You point to a photo of you and Lestrade at Christmas last year.

The headlines infer that Lestrade and I share you - and speculates kinky threesomes at Baker Street. I feel sick. I fight the urge to gag. If I come undone in front of you, it will be clear how terrible this scandal is. I don’t care what is said about me. I’ve been called every name there is - freak, fraud, failure, psychopath, murder. To have your name dragged into the swill, I can never forgive myself for making you susceptible to attack. You’ve done nothing but loved me. As for the person responsible, I will make them pay - painfully if I need to.

"It’s not safe for you to return to Baker Street," Mycroft says.

 

 

"I have to agree," Lestrade pipes in. For the first time, I see empathy in his eyes. I wait for him to suggest that you stay with him.

"Where do you suggest we go?" I ask.

"This place has plenty of room and security. You will be safe from reporters," Mycroft suggests.

I touch your knee. It’s the first time I dare go near you. “What do you want, Lucy?”

You smile weakly, but it does not ease my nerves. “To have this not happen.”

I swallow hard. There are many things that could end us - death, my stupidity, a better man. I never thought our own intimate details would unravel us.

"Lucy." My voice wavers. I’m trying to comfort you, plead with you. My fingers wrap around yours.

You sniff. “We should stay here.” Your fingers course through my hair as I press my forehead to your knees. “You and I…together.”

I look up. “I will find the person that did this and I will make them pay.”

You nod numbly.

I wipe your cheeks. “What happened at work today?”

You shake your head. “It was awful. I mean, I walked by the news stand this morning with all those headlines, but didn’t see them. I was getting strange looks, but it didn’t connect until a coworker alerted me. Luckily, Greg turned up at that moment.”

I hate that you smile at him even though we are connected.

I clear my throat. “Thank you for being there.”

He nods tersely. “I tried phoning you, but got your voicemail.”

"I was asleep." I know my cheeks have changed colour. I blanch thinking of last night being caught on video.

We share the same thought as you look into my eyes. I squeeze your hand.

"I’m sorry you were dragged into this." My head inclines to Lestrade.

"I’m more concerned for Lucy," he says. "We’ll make this right."

It’s a strange moment when Lestrade and I share a common goal - to protect you. 

"I’ll have my people bring your affects here." With that, Mycroft leaves the room.

"We’ll find those cameras - and who they belong to," Lestrade states.

I look over to John and can see his thoughts. “You think so?”

"I’ve told you that I don’t trust her," he says.

"Adler." Her name tastes like poison on my tongue.

When would she have done this? The night she intruded on us? She was laying in wait for me. I grab the newspapers to lay out on the floor. I need to see every photo as I have each etched in my memory in chronological order. The first photo I saw was from our first night together - before she intruded. I stop for a moment.

"Why didn’t you answer my texts?" I ask you.

"I turned off my phone. I started getting calls from everyone I knew and anyone I ever dated."

I cover your hands with mine. “I’m sorry this has happened.”

"This was our private life and now everyone can see it. Everyone thinks we are dirty freaks. All my friends see me differently. They’ll say terrible things about you - that I was forced, drugged. One article hinted that you released the photos to prove a point to the world."

"What point was that?" I ask.

You blush and look to John. “That you aren’t gay.”

John shakes his head. “Even though I’m married….”

I run my hand through your hair. Casting a glance back at all several photos of us in various positions and scenarios, I say. “Do you know I see? Love and trust. I’ve never been more open for another person - ever. I see two people giving themselves completely.”

”You wouldn’t believe what they are writing about you. One speculated that you forced your kinky lifestyle on me. That I was drugged. Another says that you share me with Greg.” Your eyes water.

"Lucy, I have no interest in what they say about me. We have a contentious relationship, the press and me. However, I am concerned for you." I caress your cheek.

"This isn’t going away overnight, is it?" You sigh.

"No, it’s not. Do you want me to arrange for you to leave? Mycroft can arrange a trip to America, France….anywhere you like….until this blows over."

Slowly, you shake your head. “No. Everything I want is here. We do this together.”

Your fingers lace through mine.

"Together." I nod.

 


	44. Life at Holmes Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy's mum weighs in on the scandal

**Lucy**

 

All the pictures are scattered on the desk. I look at them. Some in colour, some in black and white. All of them blurry. These are the only photos I have of us, sadly. It’s true that all anyone will see is the deviant behaviour. They don’t hear the words of love passed between us. Our faces are pixilated so they can’t see the look of pure adoration and trust.

"We have exclusive video of Sherlock Holmes and Lucy Adams scandal. Some of these images are graphic," the anchor trilled gleefully.

You walk into the library and your eyes turn to the telly. “Oh, they have the actual video now?”

I rub my eyes. “How many are out there? Was everything recorded?”

"We’ll find everything, Lucy," you say. "How long have you been staring at these?"

 

 

I look back to the desk. “I don’t know. You aren’t bothered by this?”

You shake your head. “Why would I? It just reaffirms everything I know about us. I only wish you weren’t dragged into it. It’s because of who I am and what I do.” Pause. “Who I associate with.”

I swallow the dry knot in my throat. “Last night?”

You nod gently. “I’m sure it was filmed. It’s a matter of time of when it’s used.”

I sigh. “I know John thinks it’s her.”

"All signs point to that. I first thought she planted the cameras the night she turned up at our flat. Judging by the photos, it was when we were in Brighton." You stand behind me.

"She missed us breaking the table," I say wearily.

"Lucy, I’m sorry." You drop your chin to my shoulder as one arm wrap around me.

"It took two of us to do these things," I say.

"Do you regret this?" Hearing the uncertainty in your voice melts me. You are a man that believes in everything you say or do.

"Sherlock, I’ve never had regrets. If I had to think of one, it was taking forever for us to happen. I never should have accepted Greg’s proposal. I wanted so desperately for you to say anything that would make me say no."

You turn me around. “I know it’s taken me awhile for your birthday.”

"That was ages ago. I’m not mad anymore." I gesture to our sex life sprawled across a large mahogany desk. "We’ve bigger things to tackle."

"I had your present last night, but then that package arrived and I got," an impish smile tugs at those amazing lips. "Distracted. I want to give it to you now."

You produce a round sapphire ring surrounded by diamonds.

"Sherlock, flowers would have been okay. Maybe some chocolates."   
Truthfully, I love it.

"With your diet? You’d shoot me if I gave you sweets." And there is the Sherlock I moved in with a year ago.

"Don’t piss on the moment." I warn.

"It reminds me of your eyes." Your voice is a mere rumble. "And it is your birthstone."

 

 

"It’s beautiful," I breathe.

"Lucy, I never want to lose you." You press your forehead to mine.

I pull you down to crush my lips to yours. You never cease to amaze me. We taste like brandy and nicotine gun. You crush me to your body. After a moment, I pull away. “Does the library door lock?”

"It does. What are you suggesting, Miss Adams?" An eyebrow raises suggestively.

I smile. “Think your brother has cameras in here?”

"He most assuredly does."

I stride across the room to close and lock the door. “What the hell? I’ve already been exposed as a kinky slut. I know Mycroft won’t release this to TMZ.”

You take my hand to slip the ring on my finger - the right hand - I notice. I push you onto the desk, over the several photos of us doing what we are about to do. Straddling you, I kiss you hungrily. If you aren’t embarrassed, then why should I be? Tomorrow, I will have to listen to the voicemails and read the emails. I will have to face my mother and answer questions no one really has the right to ask.

Tonight, your fingers are caressing my inner thighs as they continue their ascent to my knickers. I unbutton your shirt, which I’ve just noticed is rumpled- and from yesterday. It still smells of the sweat from last nights’ activity.

The desk is far from comfortable. It’s more about sinking down on you surrounded by those video stills. It’s you grabbing my hips and thrusting up into me. My knees hurt as they press into the hard wood. You push my work skirt around my waist and I barely push your trousers past your arse. It is quick, angry, desperate, and amazing. We show the world that we cannot be broken. I ride you hard until your eyes roll back and your beautiful mouth hangs open - silent as you have a violent orgasm.

Take that Irene, you bitch.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Lucy

Mum gapes at the grand foyer’s marble and intricate woodwork.

"Sherlock’s brother is rather wealthy, isn’t he?" She wonders.

"It’s family money, Mother," I say disdainfully. Sure, if she knew that you were secretly loaded, she would have accepted you a lot sooner.

"Why does Sherlock choose that old flat?" She pulls a face.

"He prefers that old flat." We decided you should make yourself scarce while mum visited. You would be blamed for corrupting her sweet daughter. And the mention of the old flat reminds Mum why she’s here.

"Lucy, how could you? Did he force you?" Tears well in her eyes.

"Would that make it better if I was forced?" I ask.

"No, she doesn’t mean that," Rachel shoots Mum a warning look. "How are you?"

She steps forward to hug me tightly. You were the one that suggested Mum and Rachel be brought here together. Rachel does provide a healthy balance.

"I’m as okay as I’m going to be," I sigh.

"Where is he?" Mum asks acerbically. 

"He’s at the flat with Greg." I regret mentioning his name immediately. 

"Ah, the Inspector…." She sighs.

"Yes. He’s been rather helpful." I mutter.

"Shocking after what you both did to him. Now he’s dragged into this mess as well," Mum tuts. 

Anthea breezes into the room like a cold front. “There is tea for your guests.”

"Thank you Anthea," I nod. 

I never much cared for her, and I know she does not like having us here. We’ve invaded her home in the span of twenty-four hours. We’re not supposed to know that her relationship with Mycroft is more than just professional. We can’t figure out the reason for secrecy, but they have been a little cagey around us. I think she takes exception to my being regarded as the woman of the manor in such a short time. It’s not a distinction I want. But as you explained to me as an established partner of a Holmes, I am immediately placed in that role by the household. It doesn’t matter that Anthea may spend nights with Mycroft if he doesn’t introduce her as a partner. The politics of the wealthy are ridiculous. 

I lead Rachel and Mum into the sitting room with antique settees and fine China. Mum’s eyes widen. You might be forgiven based on the size of your trust fund. 

"How long are you staying here?" Rachel asks.

I shrug. “Sherlock is at the flat now with Greg and John - going over everything.”

"Do you know who did this? I’m guessing that cameras were planted." Rachel says.

"We have an idea. Now, we have to prove it." I can’t help my anger when I think of her, The Woman. Even though you chose me, she had to try to wreck it all. 

"You’ll press charges, right?" Rachel takes a biscuit. 

"Of course." 

"What will you do now? You’ll surely be sacked," Mum says.

"Why is that?" I ask.

"Do you think this is not a big deal? Your arse is in every printed newspaper! It was on the Today Show! This isn’t going away," Mum shrills. 

"I know. I’m the one who can’t walk on the street. I’m the one getting calls from every guy I ever dated. Trust me Mother, I know my life will never be the same!" I seethe.

"But you are still with him? How much does he have to put you through before you realize this relationship of yours is damaging!" She hops out of her chair. "Look what he’s done to you!"

"Mother, who do you think instigated that? It wasn’t him. I was not only a willing participant, but I took the lead." My voice is even and controlled. 

"You enjoy all that?" She looks as though she might be sick. 

"Not all the time, but sometimes yes."

"It’s looks barbaric. Like a bad porno." She shakes her head.

I can’t help but laugh. Hearing my mum say the word porno is almost more ridiculous than the events of the last few days. 

"You think this is funny? Are you getting a good chuckle over your ruined reputation? Your aunt called me from Chicago…distressed. She offered to fly you over there until things calm down. My friends are horrified. Do you realise that this effects more than just you and your precious Sherlock?" She is shrieking now.

I hadn’t considered the ripple effect of this. It is about more than us. This is Greg’s reputation too. There are several people in Scotland Yard that have had serious reservations about you working with him. He’s been made to look a fool. But this is not my fault. I cannot accept responsibility for my privacy being breached.

"Anna, please calm down." Rachel goes to her.

Mum is shaking and staring at me with what can only be described as disgust. 

"No one did this to hurt you. What we did was behind closed doors and in private. I know this is life altering. I’m living in this mausoleum instead of my home. I’m food for fodder for every talk show, magazine and website. I might be behind security gates, but I know what’s being said." My fists are clenched.

Mum’s face softens. “Then come to Chicago with me. Just for a few weeks.”

"I’m not leaving him, Mother," I say defiantly.

"Maybe she’s right," your voice comes from the doorway. "Perhaps you should run away for a bit until the nastiness simmers."

 

 

I whirl around. “Are you mad? That’s what she wants.”

"Oh I think she got what she wants. Our life is up for everyone to see and make comments on." You cross the room to me. "Rachel, Anna, thank you for being here for Lucy."

Mum stands gobsmacked, and a little embarrassed at what you probably heard. 

Your hand rests on my shoulder. “Anna, I’m sorry if this has been inconvenient for you.” Her mouth opens to assault you with words, but you hold a hand up. “I cannot imagine what it was like to see all that. Despite what you saw, know that I respect your daughter immensely. Everything was consensual.”

She nods wearily. “I, uh, thanks.” She blushes knowing she’s seen pretty much all of you in the papers. 

I stand to wrap my arm around your waist. “Did you find them all?”

You nod. “Yes. We tore the flat to pieces much to Mrs. Hudson’s chagrin. She sends her best, by the way.”

"How many did you find?" 

"We found four. The only room that was clean was the loo. She couldn’t quite hide one in there. They have all been brought to experts to trace their origins." Your hands rest on my shoulders.

"And you’re certain it’s her?" I ask.

You nod. “I just have to prove it now.” Your thumbs caress my cheeks. “And then destroy her.”

"I want to be there when you do. I want her to see us together." My voice shakes. 

You press your lips to my forehead. “Are you certain you don’t want to escape this for awhile?”

I nod. “When can we go home?”

You sigh. “Baker Street is still an active crime scene.”

"I get the feeling Anthea doesn’t like us," I say. 

You smile. “She doesn’t like anyone besides my brother, oddly enough.”

 

 

My mother clears her throat. Your eyes shift over my head to her. “Rachel, thank you for coming and being a good friend to Lucy.” You look to me. “I should go. John’s waiting for me downtown. I’ll see you later.”

"I’d like to get out of here for a bit," I say.

"John suggested dinner at his flat." 

I smile. “You’d subject yourself to Mary’s cooking?”

"Oh no. I was suggesting take away." With a smile, you kiss me before moving the the door. "Ladies." And you’re gone.

"You know Lucy, I would have never guessed that under all that arrogance and the expensive suits that your detective would have such a scrumptious body," Rachel clucks.

We both break into a fit of laughter while mum looks on - aghast. 

 

*  *  *  *  *  *

Lucy

For some reason, the library has become my solace. The dark wood and heavy velvet curtains offer a sense of security. Somehow, there is always a fire burning no matter the weather or time of day. It's a big room, yet cozy. Plus it boasts the strongest signal to the wifi. 

I curl my legs under me and open my laptop. I know better, but I Google my own name to see the latest. 

"Never a wise decision," says the voice behind me.

"What else is there to do?" I ask.

"You could read one of these books." He gestures to the leather bound books lining the wall.

"I guess I'm just a glutton for punishment." I shrug.

"You are with my brother." Mycroft's face twists into a smile.

He settles across from me in casual trousers and simple dress shirt. This is the most dressed down I've seen him. My face feels hot knowing he has seen pretty much everything there is of me. 

"Thank you for letting us, me, invade your space." I close my laptop.

"This is still Sherlock's though he chooses not to reside here. Too many Holmes for one space, I suppose."

 

Mycroft steeples his fingers under his chin. For the first time, I see the family resemblance . 

"Either way, you really saved me." I smile.

"Despite appearances, I care for Sherlock." He inclines his head to me.

"He'll never say it, but I know he's grateful." I offer.

Mycroft dissects me with his eyes, much the way you used to when I first moved in. I was a puzzle you were trying to solve. Or you were figuring a way to get me to move out perhaps. 

"Only a few people have really reached him in his life. To date there have been two - Dr. Watson and you." He casts a gaze to an old family photo. From the dress, it was probably taken in the 70's. "I only wish mum could have seen what he became. That he did have the capacity for great emotion and love. If he weren't so fiercely protective of you, he would not be here."

"Is that a good or bad thing?" I ask. I watch the light reflect in the beautiful ring on my finger. I look up to see Mycroft's eyes on my ring with a slight smile.

"It's an important thing. It feels," he searches. "Familial."

"I wish it was under better, less embarrassing circumstances." I sigh.

He nods. "Yes, it was an embarrassment all around. I think the newspapers were more disappointed he wasn't shagging John Watson. Everyone loves a dirty secret."

"And bondage isn't dirty?" I raise my eyebrows.

"Not since that awful book came out." He smiles.

And I laugh heartily for the first time in days.

"He's been working with DI Lestrade on this." Amusement tinges his words. 

"Yes. It took a sex scandal to bring them together." I muse.

"Isn't that always the way." His eyes crinkle. 


	45. Into the woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene exacts revenge

"Where is she?" I shout as I stride into the library.

"She just went for a walk on the grounds." Mycroft’s hands are folded on top of the very desk we fornicated on last week. 

"Do you see how dark it is out there?" I gesture to the long orange glow through the trees. Soon the sun will set.

"She’s on our grounds. Perfectly safe," he sighs. 

 

 

"We don’t know what Irene is capable of and I just antagonized her."

"Now why would you do that?" Mycroft tilts his head.

"To get the truth by forcing her hand." I explain.

"Maybe you’re overreacting." Lestrade offers.

"When it comes to Irene, I underestimated. She’s angry with me and knows exactly where to strike." I reel back on Mycroft. "I left her in your care."

Anthea appears behind John in the doorway. “Problem?”

"Looks like we are missing a house guest," Mycrofy clucks. "Have you seen Lucy?"

"I wasn’t aware I was on nanny duty," she responds coolly.

"Can you pull the videos? Let’s see if we can find our lost lamb." I want to smack the smile from his face. I can practically smell his arousal from across the room. Whatever the world thinks of our relationship, whatever Mycroft and Anthea have is far more perverse.

With a nod, she disappears.

"You said we were safe here," I hiss.

"You are if you stay indoors." He stands.

"You can’t ask her to be a prisoner in here." I snap as I pace the room. 

"This was your home, Sherlock. You seem to forget that."

"Hardly." I roll my eyes. "I didn’t want to come here."

"If it wasn’t for the fact that I like Lucy, I would not have invited you." Mycroft huffs.

"Are you both done?" John asks us. "Can we get Lucy before someone else does?"

I pull my phone from my ear. “Why isn’t she answering?” I stop mid voicemail greeting.

"Perhaps she finally came to her senses." Anthea purrs. She produces your mobile. "Or, she left it in the kitchen."

"Anthea, can you pretend to be pleasant? The sooner we find her and end this, the sooner you can have your precious manor to yourselves." I sneer. "Mycroft, perhaps it’s time be open about your relationship so the household staff would treat her with the respect she craves."

"Jesus," Lestrade rolls his eyes. "Stop, both of you."

Anthea draws closer. “I came to tell you that Lucy was seen leaving the house an hour ago. She was heading towards the pond.”

"Grab some torches," I say to John. "Let’s go."

I don’t call out for you. If you are a target, it will only help someone else get to you first. I know Irene is not out here. She’d never directly dirty her hands. If she’s chosen to get her final fury, she will have hired an expert. I keep my eyes peeled for laser dots and movement as we wander deeper in the Holmes estate. 

I fear that you could have wandered off the property without realising it. As a child, it was easy for me to go exploring and visit my manifestation of my mind palace. Often I meandered off the grounds. But I know this land in daylight and moonlight. I see the final hue of the day racing towards the horizon. My breath dances in the air. I hope you’ve dressed warmly. 

"How much land do you have?" John huffs beside me. 

 

 

"A bit." I answer.

You aren’t by the pond. We head back up the hill towards the house, skirting the woods. A terrible cold feeling grips my insides. The ground is so dry that there are no footsteps. I see some scattered leaves and a broken twig here and there. What if you were taken? Again? The nightmares had finally stopped from the last time Moriarty took you.

Suddenly, I see a figure emerge from the woods. When I stop, Lestrade and John pause as well. I crouch low to not be seen. It’s hard to make anything out in haze of dusk. I watch the figure stagger out looking a bit dazed. It’s you. I can see that you didn’t mean to wander off as long as you did. You look worried and cold. 

"Lucy," I sigh as I rush to close the distance. 

You stop when you see three people moving to you.

"Sherlock, John? How did you know I was lost?"

Suddenly I hear rustling and a click from the forest. I lunge forward to pull you out of the way.

There are five distinct pops, then you drop to the ground. No! Not like this. Not again. 

 


	46. The Fallout Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one fucks with the Holmes boys

Sherlock

 

I reach you in five seconds and toss myself over you. A few pops whizz by.

"Are you hit?" My hands grab at you.

 

"No, I'm okay." Your breath is heavy.

"You just dropped, I thought...." My voice is tight.

"I know to drop when I hear gunfire. What's going on?" You shiver under me. 

Clearly you had not planned to be out this late in just a light anorak and no gloves. 

I hear rustling in the woods and shots from a different direction. Both John and Lestrade have their guns drawn. While Lestrade edges closer to the woods edge, John crouches beside us.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Yes, do you have an extra gun?" I ask.

Even in the dark, I can see his frown. "Yes, I always carry a spare. What do you think?"

"Well you should," I snap. 

"What's going on?" Panic edges your voice.

There is gun fire from everywhere it seems. John covers us and watches. Voices draw close, Mycroft's rising above them all. Orders are shouted, and more men cover us. I wrap you under my coat to warm you. We hold our position for almost fifteen minutes. I hear people talking over a radio. 

"Subject apprehended," Lestrade's voice crackles.

I pull you up and brush the leaves and dirt off. "It's almost over."

You shake your head solemnly. "Those photos are out there. It will never be over."

"I'm sorry." I sigh.

"It's not your fault." You say.

"It's my association with people that gets you hurt."

You touch my face. "None of that. I don't want to hear that 'you'd be better without me' shite. I don't scare that easily."

I smile and wrap myself around you. "It's a good thing, that." There are only two people in my world strong enough to stand beside me. I am fortunate that I found both.

~ ~

In Mycroft's wine cellar, there is a room once meant to be a panic room. Long before that, it was a bomb shelter. It's sound proof and stark, all items removed for the construction.

He sits on folding chair with his hands cuffed behind his back. His eye and lip are swollen. The flannel on his left thigh is wet from the gunshot wound. He doesn't want to talk, but unfortunately for him, I don't care what he wants. He eyes me as I roll up my shirtsleeves. Lestrade leaves the room to Mycroft and I. I smirk as Mycroft strips himself of his suit jacket and meticulously rolls his sleeves as well. 

 

It takes a few hours to persuade him to be forthcoming. In her haste, Irene was sloppy and did not fully vet her sniper. He has a feeble constitution where discomfort is involved. Eventually, he cracks like an egg and gives me all I need. Lestrade was kind of enough to be mistaken in regards to a shooting at the Holmes Estate. An officer with loose lips and mainline to that vile Kitty reported a female had been shot and died. The press can be useful at times.

The false report buys us time and gives Irene a false sense of security. She has lost her edge - her tracks become easy to uncover. Slowly, her world unravels once more. This time there is no escape. Instead of helping her, I lead the firing squad.

In the predawn hours, an ambulance pulls up to the manor. A man whimpers as he is rolled across the driveway accompanied by Lestrade.

On the other side of London, a woman is pulled from her bed and handcuffed - not for pleasure. She is escorted to a police car in only a lace dressing gown. 

I pull off my damp shirt to toss in the bin. It is one of my favourites, but it is sacrificed for the greater good. I step into the shower and watch the red water swirl around the drain. After I dry off, I slip into cool sheets and press my damp body against your warmth. 

"Where is she?" you ask sleepily.

"In custody." I kiss the back of your neck as my arms wrap around you. 

"Will she stay there long?" 

"There's not a barrister who could spring her. Attempting to kill a member of the British government is serious." I say. 

"Your knuckles are swollen." I can hear your frown.

"He took some....convincing. Didn't want to disappoint mummy." I hope you don't see the shirt in the bin.

You press your lips to them. "You brute." Rolling over to face me, your fingers brush back my wet hair. "Brains and brawn."

I kiss you deeper than is required for this time of the morning. 

"Are you tired?" There is mischief in your voice.

"For you, never." 


	47. Everything you say will destroy you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wheels of justice grind on....

The air in the flat is chilly as I step from the bath. Clutching my dressing gown, I can’t help but still feel exposed. The cameras are long gone, I’ve been assured. Our first night home, I felt shy about even getting undressed. It took a few nights to feel safe enough to have sex - under the covers and in the dark. It will be weeks before I can drag you upstairs for more exuberant lovemaking. Eventually my desires will win over my fear. I shouldn’t care - we’ve been exposed nine ways to Sunday all over the world. I’ve been approached for interviews, book deals, and the most ridiculous offer of a Playboy spread. Bondage magazines want me to write articles about our life - as if that makes up most of our bedroom activities.   
This will all fade, I know. Thanks to Mycroft, I still have a job with InfoTech and I can work remotely from the flat. At least until the reporters decide I’m no longer worthy of stalking. However, Baker Street is feeling small - especially after the sprawl of the Holmes Manor.

I shuffle about the flat to dry my hair. I hear you pacing the living room. You speak in low tones on your phone - to John. You’ve been quiet this morning, moving around like I’m fine china.

"You don’t have to go," you say over breakfast.

"I want to go. I need to," I say simply. 

"It will be a media circus," you warn.

I look up. “Sherlock, it’s been a media circus. To not be there would send her the message that she’s won. I will not have that. She needs to hear what I have to say.”

The bite in my voice is enough to snap your ever-running mouth shut. Instead, you reach across the table to cover my hand with yours. A smile pulls at the corner of your mouth. “She’ll hate this. The two of us standing against her.” 

I squeeze your hand. “I want to look in her face when I testify. I’m bloody tired of being a victim.”

You understand and nod. Since taking Baker Street as my address, I’ve been the victim of several crimes - more than the average person. I’d had enough. Perhaps I feel raw as we edge on Christmas and the Moriarty incident. Sometimes I still don’t feel safe. You bring some questionable characters into our world. I keep holding my breath for the next nemesis.

You sense my melancholy. “Are you all right?”

I nod silently. “I should get dressed.”

"Lucy, you don’t have to do this. She’s already been convicted. This is just for sentencing." You implore. You hate what this has done to me and some of the relationships in my life - namely my mother.

"I’m going." I state firmly.

There is commotion on the street. You peer out the window. “They’ve started to collect.”

"Some have been there all night," I say wearily. "It’s almost over and we can enjoy the holiday."

You smile. “Much better than last year. No Moriarty. No Lestrade. Just us.”

I think back to the tree lighting and how my heart nearly exploded when you turned up. We held hands and I should have broken up with Greg straight away. Even if you didn’t return my feelings, I had no right to be with anyone else.

"Just us. But we’re still having a Christmas party."

You roll your eyes. “Fine, since you enjoy it.”

I see nostalgia flicker in your eyes. We remember the stolen glances and accidental touches. It seems a lifetime ago.

"You better get ready," you say softly. "The car will be here soon."

~ ~ ~ 

  
I hoped to see Irene in prison orange. Instead, she wears a modest skirt suit of simple pink and white. Her hair is soft around her face and make up less severe than usual. Her attempt at ‘virginal’ makes me sick.

Greg has testified before me, since she had no trouble dragging his good name into the mud as well. She had taken photos off my my laptop and handed them over to the press. I feel sorry for Greg being exposed like this. He seems used to the collateral damage of being a friend of yours.

When it is my turn, we stand together. Your hand rests on the small of my back as I speak succinctly about what the past few months have been for me. From her breaking into our flat naked, to my body being splashed on every magazine and news paper - pretty much world wide. It doesn’t matter if the papers issues an apology or retracted the claims. The damage was done and my life had been breached and put on display. She stares at me, the corners of her pale pink mouth twitching to a smirk. Her eyes ice over as you shift closer to me. You will always be her weakness.

She has nothing to offer in her defense before her sentence is discussed behind closed doors. I hope to God they find a judge she hasn’t fucked. He seems old and decrepit but I put nothing past her.

I stand in the hallway with you. The media is kept outside. The street is lined with news trucks and news reporters. They pace like addicts waiting for the next fix.

"Coffee? Water?" You ask.

"Coffee please. I didn’t have much of mine this morning." I say.

You leave with John. I lean against the hard wood and take a deep breath. Not far from where I stand, Irene exists a conference room with her lawyer in tow. He caresses her arse before dropping his hand into his pocket. He glances quickly, trying to hide his wedding ring. She tosses a furtive look back and catches sight of him. Knowing that I’m witness, she squeezes his arse in return and purrs in his ear. A crimson flush spreads from his neck to his cheeks. Pulling his phone from his jacket, he darts outside.

Now it is just Irene and I in the hallway, save for some random passersby. I don’t break my hard gaze. She cannot resist in sidling up to me.

"That’s a capable frock you are attempting to wear." She condescends.

"I’m shocked that pink number hasn’t melted off in protest." I say.

"I heard Sherlock likes them vanilla. Case in point." She gestures.

I laugh. “If only you possessed what he liked.”

Her eyes flash angrily. “This was inconvenient. It will never stick - all this.”

"We shall see. Even if you walk, which I doubt, he still won’t go to you. That’s what you really want."

"Please. I’m well over Sherlock Holmes." She prowls around me. "I think I went after the wrong morsel. You’ve some fight in you. We could really be something. I’ve seen what you enjoy. I think I could enlighten you."

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, you want me now?”

"I prefer women. And clearly you wield all the power in the relationship." She presses close to speak in my ear. "I like power."

"I know. But didn’t you just call me vanilla?" I tilt my head.

"Maybe I have it wrong." She licks her lips. "I can smell your heat from here."

I drop my eyes. “You do? I’m not into girls.”

"I think you’d like it if gave it a chance. I’ve been told I have a magical tongue."

I drop my eyes to her lips. “If you get put away, there goes that. Then what? Wait for you?” 

"You could….drop the charges…." She smiles.

I laugh. “How did I know you’d suggest that?”

She shrugs. “A girl can try.” Her hand rests on my arm.

"And what do I get in return?" I drop my voice.

Her fingers trail up my arm. I bite back the bile rising in my throat. “Anything you like, love.”

"What about Sherlock?" I ask.

"Bring him. The three of us could get on famously if you open your mind to it. I won’t touch him, if that bothers you. We will be there solely for your pleasure." She enunciates the last word.

I swallow hard. “In your bed?”

"If that’s what you want." She hums.

"I think…I’d want that. With your crop." I whisper.

"And my handcuffs." Her arm coils around me.

"Can I wear your dressing gown?" I ask.

"I can’t wait to see you in it." Her voice quivers.

"Can we use the velvet lined cuffs?" I move closer to her.

"Oh yes," she moans. "Wait, how do you?"

"Would it looks like this?" I hold up my phone for her see. "Irene, you’ve let that bed grow cold. We thought we’d warm it for you."


	48. A bland cup of coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy packs quite a punch

I round the corner with a styrofoam cup of grey liquid for you. I use all the cream in attempt to get this sludge drinkable. Irene leans suggestively close to you. Your gaze is heavy, almost flirtatious. My stomach clenches. Neither you nor Irene see me lingering. She inches closer to touch your arm. You do not flinch but offer a sly smile. I can’t hear what’s being said.

"Sherlock," John says behind me.

"Shhh." I command. 

At the other end of the hallway, Lestrade watches with interest as well. Irene licks her lips. Oh, she’s smitten with you. I can feel her pulse from here. She will not stop - we are an obsession to her. 

As you speak in her ear, her fingers curl around your arm. 

I strain to hear.

"Can I wear your dressing gown?" Your voice is smooth as hot chocolate.

"I can’t wait to see you in it." Her voice breaks with want.

"Can we use the velvet lined cuffs?" You lean in.

"Oh yes," she sighs. Her eyes snap wide. "Wait, how do you?"

"Would it looks like this?" You show her the photo. "Irene, you’ve let that bed grow cold. We thought we’d warm it for you." 

Her mouth hangs open. Only a squeak escapes. With a triumphant smile, you flick through the photos. Of us naked in her bed, using her handcuffs, her crop, wearing her favourite dressing gown. Everything she has wanted to do to us in her bed, we did while she sat in a cold cell in scratchy scrubs. We reenact nearly every frame she sold to the newspapers, but in her home. We invaded her world.

"We did forget to clean the sheets, so you might want to do that." You chuckle coldly. "Rather, you might want to burn the bed to be safe. We had loads of fun."

I cannot contain my smile. In truth, it took an entire bottle of Irene’s most expensive wine to loosen you up enough to enjoy having sex in Irene’s house. After a few glasses, revenge was a powerful aphrodisiac. It was some of the most explosive intercourse we’ve had thus far.

Irene sees me, finally. She looks betrayed, ridiculously enough. 

She finally breaks and lets out a howl before she lunges at you. I drop the coffee to intervene. John is right at my heels. You calmly step back and narrowly miss her claws sinking into you.

"I will kill you!" she screams. 

You step back as she stumbles forward. For a leftie, your right packs some power. Your fist cuts her from below catching her squarely on the nose. She recovers quickly and moves forward again. Another punch causes her nose to crunch. Blood flows like a faucet. It happens so fast that I am glad for the CCTV in the courthouse. I’ll need to replay this later. 

Lestrade moves behind her to wrap his arms around her waist. Despite the blood, she screams and waves her arms wildly.

"Can I have some help?" he shouts. 

Officers rush over to contain Irene.

I touch your arm. “How is your hand, slugger?” 

You smile and shake it out. “Bit sore.” Your eyes meet hers. “But worth it.”

"That was bloody amazing," John mutters.

"Did you see her assault me?" Irene shrieks. "Arrest her!"

"I saw nothing of the sort," Lestrade says. "You tossed the first lunch Ms. Adler. Would you like to press charges, Lucy?"

You smile almost sadistically. It’s strangely arousing to see this side of you. ”I would, Greg.” 

"Come on." I entwine my fingers through yours. "Let’s go home, love."

We aren’t much for pet names, but the scowl on Irene’s face is worth being soppy for a few minutes. 

"That was brilliant." I pull you close and kiss you. 

"Thank you." You grin.

We pause at the entrance of the courthouse. You nod to a familiar woman.

"Did you get it?" You ask.

Kitty holds up her phone. “From her attacking you on. Thank you for the exclusive, Ms. Adams.”

You nod your head once. “So we are square then, Kitty?”

"Pleasure doing business with you." Kitty sidles away. 

I frown. “That woman is evil, you know that?”

"I know what she did to you. She won’t bother with you again," you say.

"Lucy Adams, I am impressed and a little scared of you." I nuzzle your ear.

"What was on your phone?" John asks. 

We share a smirk. 

"Justice," you say simply.

The reporters crowd around us as we push through the front doors. You hold your head up high as you cut a path through them. You barely blink as flashes flicker across your face. They shout to you, attempt to impede your path. You ignore them all as we meet the black sedan by the curb. 

Mycroft slides out of the backseat. “Well done, Lucy.”

"Thank you," you nod with a smile.

He stops me from sliding in beside you. “Sherlock, whatever you do in this life - do not let her get away.”

I inline my head. “And check the room for cameras.”

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

"Boring," I grumble watching the vial bubble and emit a horrible vapour. I look to my phone again. 

Have you heard from Lestrade? SH

I toss it among the clutter on the kitchen table. It’s been a week since the courthouse brawl. The media had its fun for days with Kitty’s photograph of Irene covered in blood and looking like a rabid animal with claws out and teeth bared. Everyone knew of her bugging our flat, her obsession with us (mostly me), her plot to have you killed and her once close association with the master criminal James Moriarty. She will be well past childbearing years before she is considered release. 

The media now paints you as martyr- standing by her man no matter what. It’s true, but you bristle at any attention. You want to go back to plain Lucy and Sherlock - not the heroine Lucy and her insufferable boyfriend Sherlock. Despite the warm embrace London has given us, your mother has still not called. You excuse her being in America for the oversight. I know that your choice to remain with me has altered your relationship. You will not admit to me that it bothers you still. 

My phone buzzes.

It’s still no. About to go to dinner with my mother in law. Do not interrupt - JW

At least I didn’t have to worry about that with Anna.

"Oi! What is that smell?" Your voice drifts in from den.

"Sulfur," I call. 

You appear stripping off your gloves. “What is all this?” 

"An experiment. I’d explain but you wouldn’t understand." I wave.

You cock your head. “Is that my silver bracelet?”

I bite my lip. “It was.”

"Jesus Sherlock! I preferred you stalking Irene," you sigh. "Wait, is that what I think it is?"

"Yes, it is an embalmed penis." 

"Please tell me that’s for your experiment and not later," you shudder.

I push the goggles up over my forehead. “Lucy, please. I’m not that freakish.” 

"Just checking," you shake your head. "Too bad for the man. It’s a decent specimen."

I glance at you. “But not the best you’ve seen.”

"No, but still impressive." You smirk.

"Because, I mean….you’ve recently experienced a rather…" I cannot believe I am feeling insecure.

You lay a hand on my arm. “It’s lovely, yours.”

I frown. “Lovely? Flowers are lovely. Afternoons are lovely.”

"What should I say? Magnificent?" You taunt.

"Yes!" I exclaim. "Powerful! Pleasurable!"

You wink and nudge me. “Yes to all.”

With test tubes in hand I lean over, “Come on, give us a kiss,”

With a peck, you push further into the kitchen and frown at its state.

"So, you’ll be taking me out to dinner then?" You raise your eyebrows.

"I AM in the middle of something."

You nod. “Okay. Then you can use this guy to get you off tonight.” You gesture to the phallus on the table.

"Where to?" I strip off my goggles.


	49. Bloated like a dead whale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John talk about the art of Christmas giving

SH

 

"Hello freak," Sally chirps pleasantly.

"Donovan." I nod. "Your boyfriend here?" 

She snorts. “That was over ages ago. We all have moments of stupidity.”

"Hmm, some more than others. Where is the body?" I ask.

"Up in the third level." She lifts the yellow tape. "Tell Lucy I was glad she thumped that Adler bitch."

For the first time ever, I smile at Sally. “I will.”

"Was Sally actually nice to you?" John asks.

"By way of Lucy, yes. People prefer her over me."

"She’s better to look at," he shrugs.

"Very much so." 

"What are you getting her for Christmas?" He unzips his anorak.

"What do you mean? I just gave her a gift." Good Lord, all this gift giving. No wonder the economy is in shambles.

"That was for her birthday in September. It doesn’t count even if it was a month late." He sighs.

"How anyone has any energy do much else beyond shopping," I mutter. "What do you get the woman who has endured two abductions, a gunshot wound at your hand, having her sex life tossed up for public consumption, and recently the target of an assassination attempt?" 

John shoves his hands in his pockets. “Pearls?”

We share a glance and chuckle heartily. I look back as we climb the stairs. 

"What are you getting Mary?" 

"A washing machine." 

"You cannot be serious." I pause.

"What?" He shrugs. "We need a new one."

"This is not my area, but even I know that’s a rubbish gift." I peer at him from the second landing.

"Ladies, are you coming to check out the dead body or not?" Lestrade’s voice floats down the stairwell.

"Well, it’s not going anywhere." I snap.

"Washers are not cheap," John mutters behind me.

"We will discuss it over lunch. Between the two of us, we should come up with something." 

"You’re going to eat?" He quirks an eyebrow.

"Probably not, but I’ll pick off yours."

"I’m getting double chips then. You nick all mine." 

"What do we have?" I sweep inside the flat.

"There he is," Lestrade gestures to a portly man wearing a black latex bodysuit. 

"Oh my," John gasps. 

"Who found him?" I ask.

"His wife. She’s in the other room and pretty upset, so no talking to her just yet." Lestrade says.

I roll my eyes. “If you do not want me to do my job…”

"I want you to look him over."Lestrade circles the behemoth. 

I crouch beside him. “Fine.”

"I say strangulation. Look at the marks on his neck." Lestrade points.

"You would say that. John, a peek?" I look up.

John shuffles forward. “Hmm….mmhmmm.” 

"Thoughts?" I ask.

"That’s not how he died." John stands.

I grin. “See?”

"Are you saying it was after the fact?" Lestrade frowns.

"Oh, he was strangled. That’s not what killed him." I see Anderson lurking in the doorway of the kitchen. "Look at the marks. They are not hands or rope, but a leather whip. Look at grain marks. Also, the marks are not consistent with enough force to cause death. Most likely he was engaged in autoerotic asphyxiation. Probably by the hands of a lover or professional." 

"Professional?" Lestrade asks.

"Think Ms. Alder’s prior career." I sneer.

"Ohhh. You think a dominatrix was here?"

"Most assuredly. She knew what she was doing. He had a good rogering," I lean over his pelvic area.

"Did you say ‘rogering’?" John’s head snaps up.

"Was shagging better? Boffing?" 

"How do you know he had sex?" Lestrade waves his hand to cease that part of the conversation.

"Penetrative sex with another, I doubt. However, he did achieve climax. I can smell it cooking under all that latex." I wrinkle my nose.

"You can smell semen?" 

"Yes, when it’s been sitting on the body. Roll him over. I bet there will be more clues." 

Lestrade motions to other detectives milling about.

"Bet you feel right at home, Holmes," Anderson calls from well across the room. How brave of him.

 

"Excuse me, Anderson?" I lift my eyes to him.

"You know, with all this kinky shite about. This is up your alley, isn’t it?" He glowers. 

"Shut up, Anderson!" Lestrade hollers.

I step over the body to come nose to nose with Anderson. “It’s unfortunate that you cannot find someone to indulge your darkest fantasies. You wife wouldn’t do it. Neither would Donovan. It’s so hard to repress the need to do dominate - to hold that kind of control. Is that why she left Scott? She didn’t like the restraints or the belt? The whip not of her liking?” I glance down at his trousers and the growing bulge beneath. “Even now, the smell of sex is driving you mad with lust. Just once if you find a partner that will offer themselves. And just once if they were the correct sex, you wouldn’t have to pretend.”

 

Nothing but a high pitched squeak escapes him. His eyes widen in horror as I’ve share his darkest secrets.

"Sherlock," John whispers a warning.

I expect the fist, which I get. We collide with the floor and more fists accompany the screaming. Bodies scramble to pull Anderson off of me. He is hauled out of the building. John offers a hand and a withering look.

"Did you have to?" He asks.

"Probably not. However if he is going to take liberties with my sex life, I will follow in kind." I brush off my suit.

"Lucy is going to love the black eye." He comments.

"This will not surprise her." I turn back to the dead man. "Shall we continue?"


	50. On a dark and stormy night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A blast from the past arrives at 221B

LUCY

Sherlock as a Flatmate - Episode 163 - L

I struggle with the door in the gusty December gale. I swear Baker Street is just a wind tunnel on days like this. Luckily the wine during lunch took the bite out of it. The first thing that hits me is the wall of heat. Mrs. Hudson likes the building to be positively tropical. The inviting aroma of butter cookies with a hint of something behind it. Anise? It’s clear she’s started her holiday baking. I hear my clothes groan in protest. As I climb the stairs, the other scent becomes stronger. My pace quickens. When I open the door, the pine is overwhelming. A tree larger than last years stands in front of the window. You sit in front of a cozy fire with your eyes closed. Slowly they open.

"I thought you’d be home hours ago."

"I had lunch with Rachel. We were catching up." I pull off my gloves. "Two years in a row?"

"I know how you enjoyed the last one." You stand. "You did not dress for the weather. Your cheeks are bright red." You step closer to kiss me. "And the wine."

 

 

"How long were you waiting?" I ask rubbing my hands by the fire.

"I was one hour from going searching for you." You uncork a bottle of wine.

"Or you could call." I tease.

"That too." You pause and gaze at me wistfully. "Last year, I wanted to do this with you. Decorate our tree."

"I wanted that too." I slide my arms around your slender waist. I hate that it is smaller than my own. "I was fighting it. I never thought you could be capable of this."

Your lips brush the top of my head. “I didn’t either. You compelled me to go to that bloody tree lighting. I missed you when you left for Lestrade’s. I went because John told me you would be there.”

I sigh at all the memories flooding back. “God I was so happy to see you.”

"Quite the year we’ve had." Your voice rumbles under my cheek. "Let’s decorate this blasted thing." You pull away. Emotion has taken you and it still makes you uncomfortable.

"Is it bigger than last year?" I tilt my head.

"It was heavier, I know that." You move boxes of ornaments to the coffee table. 

"This box is new." I pick up a smallish work box that smells of mould. 

"Mycroft brought that." You purse your lips. "It was from the manor. Since his behemoth of a tree has a theme, he sent the childhood ornaments for our more quaint holiday offering."

"These are from your childhood?" My voice is soppy, I know.

You turn pink and raise a hand in dismissal. “Just silly items. Possibly some terrible craftwork on my part.”

I treat opening the box like the Hope Diamond was nestled inside. There is a wooden nutcracker, a silver rattler with your name faintly engraved, a horse, a St. Nicholas missing an arm, some bit of clay work with a young Sherlock handprint.

My fingers touch the grooves of your small but still impossibly slender fingers. “These are lovely.@

"Oh god don’t get weepy." You roll your eyes.

A sniffle escapes. “Sorry. Look at your calendar. You should know why.”

"Of course! I should have planned this next week." But you are grinning.

"Sod off," I chuckle.

You pull me against you. “I am glad I can do this with you. It’s important to you.”

I pinch you.”Are you menstruating?”

There is laughing and lots of snogging before we get to the business of ordering take away and tree trimming. You fill my glass again and again with wine, just adding to my afternoon glow.

Of course, it doesn’t take long before the bickering. You insist that the lights need to be symmetric. Same goes for the ornaments. You huff and I push. Our voices rise and fall. We kiss and make up. A second bottle is opened. 

"Are you trying to seduce me, Holmes?" I trace along the buttons of your shirt. I slip a finger inside to lightly scratch at the skin underneath.

 

 

You hiss. “We still have the topper to put on.”

"Last year, I desperately wanted to shag you under the tree." I whisper.

You capture my mouth. “I might have had a similar thought.” You pull away to look on my eyes. “Please tell me you were not intimate with Greg under the tree.”

The fear and hurt are not hidden. “Honestly, after the tree lighting, we didn’t have sex much. Even after we were engaged.”

"Then yes, we will, as you so eloquently put it, have proper shag under the tree," you growl against my lips.

The flat is a soft glow of Christmas lights and the fire. I’m warm and loose from wine and your lips on my neck. God those bloody lips. Even when you piss me off so I can’t see straight, I just want those lips on me - any way possible.

So lost in the moment, we jump apart panting when there is a sturdy knock on the door. 

"Are you expecting someone?" I ask.

"If it’s John, I will kill him." You growl glancing down at a rather prominent erection.

"I’ll get the door," I say. "You…find a dressing gown."

Mrs. Hudson smiles as I open the door. “Hello dear. Oh, you’ve decorated.”

She pushes past me to get a look at the tree, leaving a handsome man in the hallway.

"Mrs. Hudson?" I ask.

"It’s lovely! Oh, where are my manners? This gentleman was looking for Sherlock." She rushes back to the door.

Striking blue eyes smile as he lurks in the doorway.

"Come in…"I step aside.

He bows his head. “Thank you. Frightful night out there, isn’t it?” He brushes some leaves from his sandy blonde hair. 

"Yes it is. I’m Lucy," I extend my hand. "I’m Sherlock’s.." I pause for a moment. I’ve never had to introduce myself as your anything since we crossed the threshold. "Flatmate."

Mrs. Hudson huffs behind me. “Flatmate?”

The man looks between her and me with furrowed brows. “I’m sorry to interrupt holiday trimmings.” His eyes scan the room with amusement. They pour over the fire, tree, wine glasses. I get the sense this man is not a stranger to you. 

"I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name. You are…?" 

"Victor." You chilly voice calls behind us. 

I look past Victor to see the storm in your eyes matches the gale outside. 

 

 

 

"Sherlock." He moves to you. "So good to see you." He gathers you in an awkward hug. One hand pats his back once.

"You’ve met my Lucy." You gesture to me possessively. 

"Yours? Oh, she said she was just your flatmate," he says.

You look at me inquisitively. I give a small shrug. What can I say? He took me off guard. His eyes have a way of disarming like yours do. 

"So…you are together?" He looks back to me.

I nod. “Yes. We are.”

He claps you on the shoulder. “Well how domestic of you Sherlock. Never thought I’d see the day you’d set up house.” He takes another look around. “Very cozy. Very unlike you.”

I release a chuckle in effort to seem lighthearted. Your steely expression has me worried. This Victor seems fine, but you are not pleased to see him. 

"I’m sorry. Who are you again?" I ask.

He takes two steps to tower over with me. A wry smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. Taking my hand, he presses soft lips to my knuckles. “I’m Victor Trevor .”

 

 *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

 

SHERLOCK

As I fly into the bedroom, I hear Mrs.Hudson's voice chirp. What did that woman want? I grabbed my blue dressing gown from the back of the door. Granted, I didn't need it anymore. That woman's voice was like a bucket of cold water.

Then I hear a mans voice. Not John. A client? That was promising.  
But when I open the door, I realize I know this timbre well. I'm thrust back fifteen years ago. The cold slide of recognition hits my stomach.

His back is to me, but not much has changed. Shoulders still loose with overconfidence. 

"Victor." It almost sounds like a bark.

 

He whirls around. His eyes sweep across me appreciatively.

"Sherlock." He smiles."So good to see you." He bounds over to hug me. Over his shoulder, you shoot me a bewildered look.

"You've met my Lucy." My jaw is sore.

"Yours? Oh, she said she was just your flatmate," he says.

I raise an eyebrow. Did it take only one handsome man for you to deny me?

"So...you are together?" His eyes walk over you as well.

"Yes. We are." You offer a reassuring smile.

He claps me on the shoulder. "Well, how domestic of you Sherlock. Never thought I'd see the day you'd set up house." He takes another look around. "Very cozy. Very unlike you."

My fingers rub together in annoyance. Why has he turned up all of sudden after so many years? What does he want? Victor is not the 'popping in for a lively chat' kind of bloke. 

"I'm sorry. Who are you again?" You tilt your head.

He sweeps over to you with all the theatrical flare I remember.  "I'm Victor Trevor ." 

I feel a rage build in me as his lips press against your fingers. 

"What brings you here, Victor?" I bark.

 

 

Your eyes snap from gazing up at him to me

He drops your hand and a solemn expression crosses his face. "My father is quite ill."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," you gasp.

"They never got on." I dismiss.

"Sherlock!" You scold.

"No, it's true. We had a falling out years ago." He gives me a pointed look that shuts my mouth before the hole I'm digging gets deeper

Victor is graced with all the things I am not. He is handsome, charming, diplomatic, gracious. He never speaks out of turn and in the day, smoothed over my rougher edges with others at university. Without his silver tongue, I'd receive the thumping I might have deserved.

"I haven't been home in a long time." He hangs his head.

I move swiftly to your side. "Have you seen him yet?"

"I tried. He was resting and Mother felt it best that I not stay." He bit his lower lip. Oh, he still very good.

"Would you care for tea?" you ask.

"No thank you." He eyes the wine on the table. "But a glass of wine would hit the spot."

"Of course. Let me get another glass." You motion for me to clear off the chesterfield from the boxes.

"Lucy, that'd be wonderful," he calls after you. He turns to me. "She's lovely, Holmes. How did you manage to snag her? Hypnosis?"

I narrow my eyes. "No, I shot her."

 

 

His head twists. "I'm sorry?"

"Here you are." You hand him a full glass.

His eyes are still on me. "Thank you."

"Please sit," you sit on the sofa.

His expression clears and happily sits beside you.

I toss myself into my chair and give him a hard stare. Why is he really here in my home? Our home?

"How do you know each other?"

"Uni." "University." Our voices collide.

"After he was turned out by his roommate Sebastian, I wound up with the tosser." His hand flies to his mouth. "Oh, sorry."

You smile easily. "Please. I live with this one. I have uttered worse language." You wink at me. I can't help but smirk in reply.

"How did you meet?" Victor leans closer to you. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck singe.

"We were flatmates." You shrug. "And after you've been kidnapped a few times, you just can't help falling in love with him."

His eyebrows knit together. "Kidnapped?"

I shrug casually. "You know me, Victor. I'm nothing without my enemies. What have you been up to?"

"Me? Oh, I live in America now. Investment banking - mergers and acquisitions. Boring stuff. After commencement, I traveled Europe. Did that whole backpacking to find myself. Wound up in Paris, then New York."

"You haven't been home since then?" I ask suspiciously.

"Not really." His eyes downcast. "We haven't spoken much since, well, you know..."

I nod once. Your eyes search my face for a clue as to what might have happened.

"You mentioned he was ill," you say.

"He's dying. Final stages of cancer and there's nothing to do but wait. Mother thought I should make amends." His hand balls into a fist.

You reach for him and cover his hand with your own. "Victor, I'm so sorry. I know how hard it is."

With all the sadness whirling around the room, it's odd when his lips curl into a strange smile as you make contact. As always with Victor, nothing is what it seems to be.

"Where are you staying?" I ask to break this shared moment.

 

 

He ruffles his hair. "I had not given it much thought. I honestly thought I'd be home, but there doesn't seem to be room for me." He gives you his twisted grin. "My room is now a 'tranquility room'. Ironic."

With a frown I lean forward. "Your house has ten bedrooms."

"As I said, I was told there was no room for me." His voice is tight.   
"I'll look for an extended stay hotel. I wanted to stop by to see my dearest friend first."

I snort. You shoot daggers at me. I see the swirling in your eyes. Oh no Lucy, do not, I implore.

"Then you must stay with us. There's a second bedroom upstairs." Your smile is an invitation he will not refuse.

"I'd hate to impose."

No he doesn't.

"But I'm not sure how long my stay will be."

"Nonsense. You shouldn't be alone in a hotel," you cluck.

You have no idea that Victor has never been alone - really. He manages to compel some poor fool to wind themselves around him until he has no use for them.

"Lucy, that's an incredibly generous offer." He turns to survey my reaction.

"My things are still upstairs," I say simply.

"Not all of them. We haven't used the room....it's currently unused." Your cheeks blush. I pick up on the sadness in your voice.

I will forever hate Irene for robbing us of our security. My skin has been craving the sting of your loving punishment.

Victor smirks. "Like old times, Holmes?"

 

"Oh, let's hope not." I push myself off the chair. "Lucy, with my experiments and strange hours. It's not exactly hospitable."

He laughs. "It really will be like the old days. Some things never change, do they?"

"And sometimes they do." I bite back.

You begin to second guess your offer watching my response.

"It will be good to catch up, Sherlock." He places his hand on my shoulder and gives it a little squeeze. My insides turn cold. I want to wrench out of his touch, but I know it would alarm you.

"I'll be incredibly busy and Lucy works. You'll most likely have to entertain yourself." I sniff.

"Shouldn't be too hard. I'll have to reacquaint myself with London." He nods.

"So I guess that means you are staying." My throat tightens.

"Thanks for having me, Lucy." His predatory gaze rests on you.

Your hand touch his arm. "Of course. I know what it's like." Your voice catches.

Oh. Of course this would resonate with you. Though you've never talked about your father's death, it becomes clear how it happened. It's like Victor has lifted a shade on your past. A shade that was mine to open.   
His hand covers yours. Annoyed, I clear my throat to break up this little moment.

"So, it's upstairs?" he asks.

A knowing glance passes between you and me. Your eyes widen a little as your head inclines toward the stairs leading to our other room.

"Victor, please give me a moment to make up the room. Some of Sherlock's things are still up there." You move quickly to the stairs.

"No bother." He protests.

"No, no. It's dusty and the sheets need to be cleaned. Perhaps the tea would be good now."

"Another glass of wine?" His grin switches to me.

"Sure." My jaw clenches.

With a smile and wink that I feel deep in my bones, you disappear up the stairs. I might as well distract him - you'll be up there awhile. I watch him pace the parlour, eyeing my test tubes and microscope. He pauses beside our tree, with a smirk. I practically chew a hole through my cheek in effort to not ask what he's really after. Is this really about his father? Why now? He must know something about my life. The video scandal had reached overseas tabloids. 

"I know I said it earlier, but she's delightful. Not at all what I'd expect from you."

I want to slap that jocular tone from his words. He lounges languidly on the chesterfield, peering from under his lashes.

"So, how long will you be staying, Victor?" I pour myself another glass as well.

"As long as it takes for father to die." He shrugs. "I guess that sounds caustic."

"I'm not known for having a heart and that was frigid." I purse my lips.

"Our last words were not pleasant, if you recall." His eyes darken.

"I know what you told me." I roll the glass in my hand and watch the red liquid swirl. "So, New York?"

"This is rather cozy. I'm happy to see you clean. Was it her?" he asks.

"No and yes. I have been clean for years, more or less."

"But she keeps you on the straight, eh? She's sweet. As I said, not what I would expect."

I gnaw on my lip. "Is there something on your mind? Clearly you are chomping at the bit to say something."

He leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "I'm only making conversation. I'm glad you sorted yourself out. I know uni was difficult at times."

"You certainly didn't always make things easy." My hands grip the arms of my chair.

 

I know he is up to no good in depths of his soul - if he has one.

"Okay." Your voice floats down the stairs. "I've grabbed Sherlocks things, so you have room." You bustle by. "I'll just put these in our room."

Our room. It's really the first time I hear you refer to your room as that. We've been sleeping in it together since last January, but suddenly it is real. Our home. Our tree. Our room. Our life. If Victor wasn't invading OUR SPACE, I would attack you where you stand. I would merge the room we used for play with our room. No need for separation now. It's all a part of us.

Victor catches my lustful gaze in your direction.

"Oh, I was interrupting something earlier." He drums his fingers over his lips.

I raise an eyebrow. "Yes, you did. Don't worry though. Your presence won't prevent it from happening later."

 

"I'm counting on it." He smiles.

 


	51. Let sleeping dogs lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a bedtime story

Lucy

 

I look up from my book. “Is he tucked in?”

You wince. “He went upstairs if that’s what you meant.”

 

 

I wonder if now is the time to ask what is going on with you. For a dear old friend, you can barely stand the sight of him.

"Did you get everything?" You close the door.

"I believe so. We stored a lot under the bed. I’m glad the swing never worked out." I smile.

"For so many reasons." You unbutton your shirt. "So, it’s all in here?"

"In that crawl space where I hid in when we were broken into." 

You sit on the bed and touch my knee. “That was a year ago.”

I nod. “I know. We have odd anniversaries. The first day I was kidnapped. The second day I was kidnapped. The day you shot me.” Pain furrows your brow as your grip my leg. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of it.”

 

 

"It was the worst day of my life," you mutter. "The second being when I thought you left me."

I lean over to kiss you. It starts slow but something switches in you, and I catch all the heat in the flat like you’ve been storing it for winter. Your fingers slip under my shirt to brush the scar. You press your lips there next and let your tongue run over the edges. 

"I love the way you taste," you say against my skin.

I bury my hands in your hair. “Hmmm.”

You look up. “The riding crop is down here, yes?”

"Yes, but….it’s been so long." I protest.

"I know," you moan. "I’ve been thinking a lot about it. I miss it."

Your lips travel across my stomach. I miss it too. I don’t know why I was afraid to walk in the room and take you like I used to. Irene is locked up and probably Queen of Female Inmates by now. We check the flat regularly for devices. Mycroft installed a jammer in case someone thought it was a good idea to try it again. 

"Sherlock, we have company." I sigh and bite my lip.

"He’s not in here. And if he is, I will kill him with my bare hands." You growl as your lips dip lower.

"What is it with you two? I thought he was your dearest friend." I hold your head still.

"His words, not mine." Your hands push my shirt up.

"Why did you let him in?" 

With a huff, you prop on your elbow beside me. “I didn’t, remember? I was having a lovely evening until Victor barged in.”

"His father is dying." I run my hand through your curls. 

"I know and it’s terribly sad. He’s not our responsibility. Or he wasn’t until you invited him to be." You snap.

"Talk like this will not serve you well tonight." I scold.

"Fine." You acquiesce. 

"What happened between you two?" I ask carefully. "You’ve been odd all night since he showed up."

You roll on top of me. “He interrupted me. I hate that. It was an idyllic Christmas night until then.” You teeth scrape my neck. “I desperately want to take you under the tree and see those lights reflect off your body.”

Suddenly, I don’t care what occurred between you and victor. I have time to sort that out later. You rub against me, your erection on the inside of my thigh. Through my shirt, you mouth at my nipple causing me to writhe under you. I never get tired of your hands on me. 

"He won’t be here long," I breathe. 

"The moment he leaves, I’m going to make love to you there." You struggle to undo your trousers.

"I wish you’d wear a belt. I could use it on you," I murmur.

Your eyes light up. “Christmas is coming. Perhaps if I am good?”

I thrust my hips up eliciting a moan from you. “I think I prefer naughty.”

"Lucy, you minx." You growl.

"Leave the trousers on." I demand. 

"Let me get the crop," you plead.

"It’s Victor’s first night. We don’t need you hollering downstairs. You’ll give him a fright." I giggle.

"All the better." Your fingers slip inside my knickers and find me. I arch against your touch. 

You growl when I release you from your pants.

"I won’t last long tonight. I’ve wanted you since before you came home." You rasp.

We move against each other, enjoying the friction. You practically bite my lips raw. I wish I had access to our toys as you are fixing for pain. Hooking your elbow under my knee, you push inside me so suddenly that I gasp.

You still above me. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

"Don’t stop moving," I moan.

With a smile, your thrust faster and harder. “Mark me,” you say in my ear and offer your neck.

"Oh God Lucy," you groan as I attach my lips above your collarbone and gently suck at the tender skin.

Normally, we refrain from silly teenage rituals of hickeys, but I know why you want one. My mouth fills with the coppery taste of your blood. It might be silly, but it’s a little erotic. No sooner do I pull off to admire my work when you sink your teeth in my neck a little higher than I prefer.

"I have to work," I protest with a laugh.

"Wear a scarf." 

I bury my hand in your hair and pull your lips off my neck. “Holmes, you are losing focus. Now fuck me properly.”

 

 

Your eyes roll back into your head. “I love it when you are vulgar.”

The heavy wooden headboard slams against the wall. It’s entirely possible the whole block can hear us. I should care about our house guest, but I don’t as you push me closer to orgasm. My nails dig into your back when you push my other knee flush with your shoulder. 

"Christ, Lucy." The banging reaches a fevered speed echoing off the walls. Finally I cry out in finality. You join seconds later. Then everything is still save for the panting.

"It’s been awhile since we’ve been as….spirited." I run hand down your sweat slick back.

"Sex at Mycroft’s ruined us for a bit." You kiss my shoulders and neck. "I think it’s time to bring the fun and games down here."

"Maybe you are right." I card my fingers through your damp curls. "But this is a solid headboard unlike upstairs. What about the restraints?"

You look at the chipped, faded wood. “As much as I enjoyed the sound it makes against the wall, perhaps it’s time for a new frame. Brass maybe?”

"You could do some research." 

You grin wickedly. “My favourite kind of research.”

All this talk of headboards and restraints reminds me of something critical. “Shit. I forgot the silk ties on the bed upstairs.”

You let out a hearty laugh. “Brilliant.”

 

* * * * * * * * 

Sherlock

  
I hear him on the stairs and my stomach clenches. You wouldn’t call in sick to work today. I attempted to coax a proper lie in with some lively morning sex - in and out of the shower. I declared that you looked too shagged out to be productive. You laughed and kissed me goodbye. You also told me to be kind to Victor. I can manage civil - maybe.

"Morning," he trills.

 

 

I nod. “Victor. Sleep well?”

"The bed is a bit lumpy. And the mice are quite loud around here." He smirks.

"Yes they are." I don’t turn from my slides.

"And apparently shag like bunnies." He leans on the table beside me closer than I like.

"Fancy that." The corner of my mouth tugs up a bit.

"Was all that noise for my benefit?" he asks.

"Hmm. I knew you were an exihibitionist but a voyeur too?"

He laughs. “Who is the exhibitionist now?”

I adjust the microscope. “I warned you that your presence would not impede my activities.”

 

 

"That you did." He moves off to find some tea. "So is this what you do? Fiddle about with experiments?"

""Sometimes." I wish he would make his tea and shove off. "Going to see Father?"

"I’m going to attempt it." He plugs in the kettle. "Last night did not go well."

"Hmm." I smear the slide with lubricant.

"What are you doing?" He sits at the other end.

"Testing personal lubricants."

He cocks an eyebrow. “Business or pleasure?”

"It’s for a case." 

He leans forward. “A case?”

I sigh. “Are you trying to convince me that you have no clue what I’ve been up to all these years?”

He blushes and looks down. “Caught me, Holmes. I looked you up years ago. It led me to a blog, right before the fake suicide. I had hoped it was you being clever. A world without you in it would be extremely bleak.”

I consider the weight of his words. “Then you know exactly what I do for Scotland Yard.” 

"How does sex lube factor in?" 

"The victim died of an allergic reaction. There was nothing ingested or injected. His lover had used lubrication for penetration. The same kind they always used. My theory is that whoever wanted him dead switched the tube."

"The lover?" he offers.   
So obvious. “The easy conclusion. And stupid.”

He looks wounded. “Still blunt, I see.”

"Why would I lie?" I look up.

"How does Lucy deal with you?" he asks.

"She’s smarter than most of you lot. And she gives it back full stop." I can’t help the grin tugging at my lips. 

"You’ve gone soppy for her." He shakes his head.

"I guess I have." I switch slides. "Your tea is ready."

He looks to the kettle as it whistles. “So brilliant.” 

I bristle at his tone. 

"Would you care for some?" he asks.

"Lucy made me coffee."

"I cannot get over how domesticated you are." He sits across from me again. Looking up, he peers closer. "I see you’ve been claimed."

"Claimed?" 

Lunging forward, his fingers brush my neck where I asked for you to mark.

"Making sure I know you’re hers, or the other way around?"

I flinch. “We get carried away.”

He returns to his seat. “Clearly. Are those silk restraints on the bed hers or yours?”

"They are ours." I punctuate the last word.

He licks his lips. “It gave me loads to think about last night.”

I step away from the microphone. “Victor, we’ve gone through this a decade ago.”

There is a knock, followed by John’s voice. “Sherlock? Lucy?”

I step away. “John, what’s wrong?”

"Where is your mobile?" He stops at the sight of Victor. "Oh, hello."

"Is something wrong?" I pat my trousers to find my phone. No battery. With Victors arrival and our lovemaking last night, I forgot to charge it.

"Lestrade and I have been ringing. There’s been a development." He still eyes Victor.

"The lover. Dead, right?" I ask my heart racing.

"How did you know?" John asks.

"Apparent suicide?" I feel a grin on my lips.

"With a note." John nods.

"Of course!" I hop with joy.

"Sherlock, a bit not good there." John shakes his head.

"Does he always get like this?" Victor moves beside me.

John cocks his head. “Uh, yeah. Sherlock, care to make introductions?”

 

 

"I’m Victor." He offers his hand to John. "An old friend."

John laughs. “And here I thought I was the first.”

Victor eyes light up. “You’re John Watson, the ever faithful blogger.”

John shoots me an uneasy look. “Yes….”

"I knew Victor at university." I move to pull on my coat. "I assume we’re headed to the lovers flat?"

"Yes."John is still eyeing Victor suspiciously.

"Wonderful." I slip my scarf around my neck. "Do you have a mobile charger?" 

"I do." Victor offers. 

I hate to use anything of his. “I’ll grab Lucy’s.” 

"This sounds all very exciting. Can I come?" Victor asks.

"Don’t you have a dying father to visit?" I snap.

"Yes, but I’d love to see you work," he says. 

"It’s not really bring your friend from uni to work day." 

"What if I don’t take no for answer?" He challenges. 

"I would expect nothing less from you." I sweep down the stairs with John and Victor in tow. 


	52. Dinner for Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor makes himself at home

Sherlock

The tension hangs like fog around the crime scene and it has little to do with the crime itself. John eyes Victor warily as he putters behind me. It is Victor showering me with praise as I share my deductions and observations. For a moment, I allow myself to enjoy the accolades, but I think of where they come from. Victor knows how to ingratiate himself. 

Lestrade isn’t quite sure what to do with my new fan. John assists me with his medical knowledge. Victor nods approvingly as he watches me flit about. Eventually it gets boring enough for him to wander off. John and I will have to go to St. Bart’s for the autopsy and I inform Victor he is not welcome. It’s one thing to pace behind the crime tape and quite another to crash a morgue. With a good natured shrug, he sets off to his family home. 

John and I walk to find a taxi in blessed silence. I can hear the questions echoing in his head. He glances at me then away. He repeats this a few times until I stop abruptly.

"Yes John?" I huff.

"I know he’s an old friend from university and why he’s here," he starts.

"Why did he follow us? I’m not sure." I shrug.

"Are you sure about that?" He sniffs.

"I have theories and I don’t care to entertain them." I raise my arm into traffic.

"Okay. He seems keen on Lucy."

My thoughts darken. “Yes he does.”

"Yet you are not too keen on him." John stuffs his hands in his pocket.

"Am I that transparent?" I open the door for John.

"You avoided him, which is not unlike you. But you ignored his praise - something I’ve never see you do. I’ve seen you openly beam at criminals who praise your genius, but this bloke, you look as if it pained you when he did it." 

I gaze out the window. “Clever deduction, John.”

"Are you all right?" he asks.

John has never seen me this put off by another person like this. I have met people who crawl under my skin like a mite, but Victor makes me squirm. He’s searching for encouragement and I refuse to offer it.

"Victor and I have not seen one another in many years. Our acquaintance did not end well, so his familiarity is discomfiting." I say. 

"But he’s staying with you?" 

"Damn Lucy and her heart of gold." I mutter. 

"Ah, that makes sense. She didn’t see how uncomfortable it made you…." he nods.

"Her powers of deduction are hampered by her goodness." I sigh.

"How long is he there?" John asks.

"Until the old man kicks." I smirk. "Or I kill him."

  
  
It’s some hours that I return home from St. Bart’s. The Christmas tree glitters and twinkles in our window. It’s a welcome sight on this cold evening. Burning wood and the smell of chicken curry draw me through the door. I bound upstairs towards the awaiting domesticity. A nice dinner, some telly, little wine and perhaps I can convince you to break out the crop. 

Your laughter mixes with the sound of Christmas music. All the things I love greet me when I open the door, except Victor stands in the center of them. He leans against the counter with his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbow, his hair a little disheveled and a glass of wine in his hand. You work beside him on the stove. A half empty glass of wine beside you. You are still in my favourite pencil skirt and blue blouse. Hmm. It would appear you missed a button on your shirt - some lace peeks out against your skin. No one hears my entrance which allows me to watch as I strip from my coat and gloves.   
He leans close to tell one of his droll university stories. Your head tosses back in laughter. He crumples toward you and places his hand on your back. Anger uncurls in my stomach and threatens to lash out like a whip. 

Your eyes catch me hanging my coat. “Sherlock!”

There is no guilt or surprise in your voice. I cross the room quickly to place myself between you and him.

I kiss your lips. “Darling.”

Your eyes widen. “Darling? That’s new.”

My face warms. “Not good?”

You wrap an arm around my waist and look up. “No, it’s very good. Pet names aren’t usually your thing.”

"It felt like the correct term of endearment in this setting." I say."Chicken curry. Smells delicious."

"He won’t eat much of it," you say to Victor and turn back to the stove.

"No Sherlocks metabolism beats to its own drum." He winks.

"How was your father?" I ask pointedly.

"He’s very frail. I’m not sure he recognized me when he was awake. Kept confusing me with his brother." Victor hung his head. "It might be too late for me to patch things up with the old man."

"Oh Victor, it’s never too late. This coming from someone who hasn’t spoken with her mother in months." You touch his arm.

"Why is that?" 

"She was disappointed in my choices," you say diplomatically.

"She doesn’t care for me." I announce as I pour myself a glass of wine.

I rarely drink. In fact, the last time I was drunk was when I thought you were engaged. You found me on the side of the road and took care of me. I have a vague memory of kissing your fingers before I lost consciousness.

No wait.

I drank everything in the house when you disappeared to Rachel’s. I was one step away from a speedball then - sick with despair. However, Victor’s presence puts me on edge as though I have slapped six patches directly on my chest. 

"Not the dream son-in-law?" he asks dryly. 

"Guess you could say that." What mother wouldn’t want their daughters life threatened and virtue displayed for every tabloid.

You stare at the chicken while stirring. “My mom wants control. Until Sherlock, she had that.”

"So you chose Sherlock?" Victor raises an eyebrow in my direction. 

The smile you give me nearly causes my knees to buckle. “Always.”

Victors jaw clicks. He’s trying to play us against each other for some reason. What purpose is he attempting to serve?

"Dinner is ready. Victor, can you set some plates?" you ask.

"Of course." He grabs the stack of three plates while you turn to me. 

"Come here." You grab my head and pull onto your lips with a kiss so furious, my stomach drops. "How was your day?" 

"Not as good as my night will be." I bury my face in your hair. I ignore that it smells faintly like Victor. He’s anointed himself in so much piney cologne that everything in the flat smells a bit like him. Like he’s marking our life like a dog.

He clears his throat. “Flatware?”

You untangle yourself from me to help him. I relish in his stiffness and discomfort.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Sherlock

"Did you solve your case?" Victor asks after dinner.

I look up from my phone. “Very close. Just awaiting some test results.”

The fire pops and crackles, casting a warm glow in the room. Upon your request, we sit in this ambient light of the fire and Christmas lights while sipping whiskey. Victor has claimed your chair opposite of me. You putter around, doing God knows what. When you walk by, your fingers pass through my hair affectionately. I stretch my neck to extend your touch. I was never one for caresses until you. If I had to search my mind palace, I craved it as a child. Mummy was never demonstrative with her love. That chill trickled down to Mycroft and me. For many years, I didn’t care to have close contact with anyone - until university when I came of age. 

"Do you still play?" Victor eyes my violin case. "I know it annoyed everyone else, but I loved when you played. You could have made quite a living doing that."

"I could have been a many number of things." I look back to the phone. 

"I love his playing too." You grin in his direction. "Perhaps not at three in the morning. I was always a piano girl. Took lessons, but I’m mediocre at best. But Sherlock is exceptional."

So much praise in one night from you. I catch your hand as you pass. “Sit with us?”  
  
"I was making out Christmas cards, but I can do that tomorrow.” You look down unsure of where to sit. Tossing a pillow to the floor, you settle in front of me and lean against my legs.

"Christmas cards? Are we doing that now?" I cock my head.

"Yes, with a cheeky photo of us and a Christmas letter."

I frown while Victor laughs. “He has no idea what that is.” He leans forward and almost touches you. “Some people send out letters at Christmas to inform friends and family of the last year. Marriages, children….”

"Can you imagine ours?" You raise your eyebrows.

I shudder. “Maybe I’ll include a link to the blog.”

Playfully, you shove my knee. “The one that’s not supposed to be online?”

I run my fingers through your hair. “Precisely.”

Victor shifts uncomfortably in the presence of all this ardour.

"They are for family, like aunts and what not." You say.

"Are you signing my name to them?"

You pause. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

"I’d like it if you would." I nod thoughtfully.

"Absolutely." You wink. "So Victor, tell us all about your boring life in New York. It can’t be that tedious in the city that never sleeps."

"I assure you that it is. I work sixty hours a week and some weekends." He sighs. "It doesn’t leave much time for anything else. It’s a lonely existence."

I snort. “You? Without companionship?”

"Imagine that." He says softly. He looks to his hands on his lap. "I was engaged a few years ago."

"Engaged? Really?" I must sound a bit hostile because you swat my leg.

He shifts in the chair. “Her name was Rebecca and we were to be married this New Years.”

"Victor." You touch his knee.

I watch him closely. Steady hand. Elevated body temperature. Glazed eyes. Accelerated heart rate consistent with distress. If he’s lying, he’s quite good. Rebecca? Interesting.

He nods tightly covering your hand with his. “Things were fine until a few months ago when an old flame came to town. I should have known in retrospect.” His eyes fix on me. “Old loves don’t just die.”

My jaw aches from clenching. My fingers dig into the arm of the chair.

You pull up and wrap your arms around him. “I’m sorry. That must have been awful.”

A look of satisfaction crosses his face as his arms close around you. He presses his face to your neck while his eyes stay on me. He knows I cannot do anything. If I react, you will take me to task for being unfeeling. Like years ago, I can’t figure out his game. One minute trying to evoke something from me. The next crowding your space and taking advantage of your goodness. Divide and conquer? 

"Thank you, Lucy." He kisses your cheek, but it’s closer to your jaw than I like. "Sherlock is lucky to have someone like you. I see your faith in him is unwavering."

You sit back on your heels. “She just wasn’t the one.” You look over your shoulder to me. “It happens. Sometimes you agree to marry the wrong person for what you think are the right reasons.”

"You two aren’t…." he asks.

You laugh. “Us, no. That’s not us. We don’t follow conventional roads.”

The look in his eyes causes my blood to run ice cold. He touches your chin. “You are a wonder to follow this git anywhere.”

Your hand finds my knee again. “It’s a two way street, most times.”

We are all connected in a very tense chain. I don’t like the energy in the flat. The fire feels too hot all of sudden. I long to go outside and feel the winter air sting my lungs. Moreover, I imagine wrapping my lips around a cigarette and letting the smoke fill me. 

You stand before the air gets stranger. I wonder if you felt the tension whirling. “Well, unlike you lot, I need to get up in the morning.” You kiss me. I savour the whiskey on your lips. “Can you clear the glasses?”

I wrap my fingers around your wrist. “Absolutely.”

You nuzzle my neck. “Taking my pulse?” You whisper.

I smile. You clever girl. “Perhaps.”

You stand to turn to Victor. “Goodnight Victor. Sleep well.”

He purses his lips. “You too, Lucy.”

"I’ll be in soon. I love you,” I say earnestly. It’s true that we don’t utter these words often. Usually after sex when we are spent and feeling most connected. I never want them to lose their meaning. 

"And I love you." You disappear down the hall.

  
I pull my laptop from the end table to check my email. I see one from Mycroft titled ‘Victor?’ I delete it. There’s one from Molly with results I was waiting for. I must tell her that the use of emoticons in business communication is unprofessional and annoying. I forward her findings to John who should still be awake. While I wait for a reply, I check his blog, my blog and consider checking your email. You’ll notice and you loathe when I do it.

Victor leans his chin against his fist and watches me intently. I sigh. 

"You can put on the telly." I don’t look at him directly.

"You are clearly besotted. Look at you." He muses.

I glance up. “You just realised that now?”

"I don’t know what I expected to find when I called on you. I thought that John lived here and…" He trails off.

"As you know, John is married." I say. "And I have Lucy. Did you know he’s the reason for her?"

"Really?" He settles back.

"Yes, he chose her to be my flatmate. He saw potential that I did not." I close my laptop. Suddenly, I feel uncharacteristically tired. 

"I always hoped that you would find love." He doesn’t mask his forlorn. 

I look away. “I would have never expected it for myself. I am very fortunate.” I think back to a year ago when Lestrade slept beside you and we were hunted by a madman. 

I stand and grab the empty tumblers. “Sleep well. I’m off to bed.”

"Goodnight Sherlock."His voice catches. 

Quickly I dump the glasses in the sink before I continue on to the bedroom. You are curled on your side facing the opposite wall. Your breathing is even and heavy. I get a sense that you are awake though. Quietly, I remove my clothes. Regardless of intercourse, I sleep in the nude. When I slept upstairs alone, I wrapped myself only in a sheet. When I started to sleep with you, I wore pajama bottoms or pants. After John’s wedding, I cannot sleep unless I’m pressing every inch of skin against you.

Carefully, I crawl in bed to curl myself around you. A sigh escapes from your mouth and you settle back against me. I can feel the confusion rolling off you. Waiting for questions that never come, I fall asleep.


	53. It's beginning to look like Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Traditions are honoured

Lucy

 

I wrap my hands around the hot cocoa. 

"Mary should be here shortly," John says. "She’s shopping for me, apparently."

"What did you get her?" I ask.

"I wanted to get her a washer. Sherlock seemed to think that was a bad idea." He shrugs.

 

 

"Really? I’m surprised. After all, it is practical." I muse.

"See? That’s what I said. She complains about ours. I thought she’d like it." he says with exasperation.

"It’s still not a great present the first year you’re married." I add.

"I ended up getting her ruby earrings, like she needed another pair of those." He grumbled.

"But she’ll love them," I say.

"What did you get Sherlock?" He winces when he burns his tongue on the scalding chocolate.

"You will have to see Christmas Eve. You’re coming, right?" I ask.

"Mary is making her figgy pudding." He nods.

Oh, you’ll be thrilled. 

"Is Sherlock coming today?" He checks his watch.

"I told him about it. Whether he heard and retained it, well, is something else. He’s been….distracted." We sit quietly for a few moments. I have nowhere to turn, really. I lean closer. "John, you’ve known Sherlock for a long time."

"A few years, yes." He nods.

"Has he ever….dated?" I ask.

"Like romantic dating?" 

 

 

"Yes. I mean, I’m not the first, right?" I fidget.

"That I’ve seen, yes. There was Irene, but that was nothing." 

"Has he ever talked about prior relationships? Like, before you knew him?"

"Men don’t really fuss about like that." He peers closer. "This is about Victor."

I nod. “Something is very off between them. I can’t say exactly what it is, but I’ve felt it from the moment Victor stepped into the flat.” 

"No, I felt it too. I’ve never seen Sherlock so unnerved." 

"Victor is very suggestive." I swallow hard. "Do you think that he and Sherlock…..you know….we more than just roommates?"

John stares at the table and drums his fingers. “People thought we were a couple. I guess we lived, and did almost everything together. It was a fair assessment.”

"Did you ever get the notion that he felt anything sexual or romantic towards you?" I bite my lip.

John shakes his head. “Until you, I didn’t think he had sex organs. He was literally married to the work. As I said, there was Irene. When I learned he went to save her life in Istanbul, I was convinced something happened there. He said that he brought her to a safe house and left that night as not be discovered.”

"I don’t know how to ask." I sigh.

"Sherlock is not very forthcoming with his past."

"I’m sorry that I don’t have anyone else to talk to about this." I make a small pile of my shredded napkin. 

"No, it’s fine. It’s perfectly fine." He clears his throat. "Go on."

"The night that we…..you know….first had sex, he didn’t know what to do really. He said that he had some experiences at university but that was it. I’m starting to think it was with Victor." I can’t believe I’m saying the words.

"University is a time when people are figuring things out. Men are particularly charged up." A blush tints his cheeks. 

"Victor is almost possessive, like he’s trying to bring Sherlock back to that place. I don’t think Sherlock wants that, but there’s something just behind his eyes." I feel like I’m losing you even as you cling to me tighter.

"Here is another theory. Sherlock’s drug use started in uni. Maybe Victor has something to do with that?" John offers.

"Maybe." I consider that as well. I’ve noticed you drinking a lot more often since his arrival. "For as inappropriate as Victor is with Sherlock, he’s the same with me. We don’t have history, but he flirts shamelessly, finds reasons to touch me."

"I could see that he was keen on you. Do you think it’s to get a rise out of Sherlock?"

I shrug. “I don’t know. There is something very unsettling about the whole thing. At first, I thought I was being sensitive to his situation and he was just emotional - coming home to a sick father after all these years. Now, I can’t sort out what he wants, or what he’s supposed to mean to Sherlock.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes. This was supposed to put my mind at ease, yet I feel more mixed that before.

 

 

"If you were to discover that Sherlock and Victor had a past sexual relationship…." He considers his words carefully. "Would it bother you?"

The blood rushes from my head and I feel dizzy. I think of your lack of experience with women. I can’t help but remember some of the things we’ve done in bed, things you were keen to do. I love experimenting and discovering new ways to share our bodies. What if it was just compensation for what you really want? 

"Not in the way you think. The concept, I have no problem with that." I take a deep breath. "But I would always wonder if I was enough. What made him be with a woman instead? Did he try it not like it? Does he like and still…crave that? Is he settling….will he decide that I’m not his flavour either." I fight back tears of frustration. "Of all the things that I thought could get us off track, this was certainly not one of them."

He covers my hand with his. “Lucy, no. I don’t believe that for a second. You don’t see the way he looks at you. I don’t believe for a moment that he would choose Victor over you.”

"But another man?" 

"Just, no." He shakes his head.

I bury my head in my hands. “I need to talk to him, don’t I?”

"I think you should, for your sake." John nods.

"I wanted him to come to me. You know, feels comfortable with sharing that." 

"If he’s had a past relationship with Victor, you have a right to know. As his current lover and with Victor staying with you," he shakes his head. "You should know."

I know I have to ask, but when? How? Is there ever a good time to ask your boyfriend if he’s shagged your male houseguest?

John looks up. “There’s Mary. Please Lucy, I know Sherlock loves you very much. I’ve seen it so many times. Just last week at dinner as you argued over dessert, he is completely besotted. But talk to him.”

I nod tightly. You excel at deducing everyone. Why can’t you observe my discomfort and ask me? Or do you know and not want to say anything? 

"Sorry I’m late," Mary heaves herself beside John. "Shops are a madhouse." She looks from John to me. "It looks like someone died."

"Just discussing Sherlock’s Christmas present." John leans in to kiss her cheek.

"In that case, a dead body might be involved," Mary teases. 

I decide to shake my conversation with John off my shoulders for the time being. I know I’ll have to bring this all up to you. How do I do it without seeming judgmental or bothered by the possibility that you and Victor were once lovers - and now that lover is sleeping under the same roof as you. 

I follow John and Mary across the street to the square. A sense of deja-vu overwhelms me. Greg cradles a hot cider beside Molly. I can’t tell if she’s blushing or the cold makes her cheeks ruddy. A portly man takes the stage to kick off the festivities. I’m trying not to search for you, but I can’t help it. You aren’t at St. Bart’s, or Molly would have mentioned. Clearly you aren’t with John. My mind wanders to a weird place where you and Victor are rekindling your long lost love. I mentally slap myself. What is wrong with me? You’ve never made any indication that my wild thoughts are founded. 

The children’s choir climbs the makeshift stage and begin singing Christmas carols completely out of synch. You hate this stuff, all this sentiment. Last year, you said that you came to see me. I was living with Greg and you missed me. This year, there’s no need for a grand gesture. You have me regardless. 

My cocoa is cold now, but I still sip it. Warm slender fingers find mine and give me a squeeze. I’d know them anywhere. 

 

 

"You came. I thought you didn’t hear me, or chose to ignore it." My voice sounds tight. 

"I was longer than I thought I’d be." A mischievous smile crosses your lips. "I see the entertainment hasn’t improved."

"The children? No..lazy bastards." I tease. 

"It’s nice to be here with you instead of just near you." Your voice rumbles in my ear.

All my fears fly away. John is right. I’m being completely daft worrying over Victor. 

"This is very nice." I press myself closer to you. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see John smile. Despite the cold, I feel warm and cozy. 

You look at your watch. “Okay, let’s turn this bloody thing on.”

"This is lovely." Victor appears on my other side. "Nice tree."

 

 

Your eyes narrow. “Victor….”

I had forgotten that I mentioned it to him as well. In my attempt to be the best host ever, I gave him all the clues he needed to crash our new ritual. 

"Lucy invited me. This is festive." Victor nods to John. "Dr. Watson."

John plasters a grin too wide for his face. “Victor. Nice to see you again.”

Miss London climbs the stage to do the honours of flipping the switch. Your grip on my hand becomes vice-like. On the other side, Victor slips his arm around my shoulders. The cocoa curdles in my stomach. John’s smile becomes a tense line. 

I roll the tension off my shoulders and allow the actress in me to take over. I can do this. With a deep breath, I clear my mind and try to forget that I’m the person caught in the middle. 

"Three…two….one….merry Christmas!" The crowd cheers. 

You look like you want to crawl out of your skin. There was a sardonic joy about you before Victor turns up. I steal a glance. I could see why you’d be attracted to him. He had the chap next door quality. A perfect smile on a perfect face. With ruffled blonde hair, he was just scruffy enough. Together, you’d be light and dark. I could see how that would work back then. You all broody and clever. Victor being the amiable and popular one. Maybe no one knew. You were just a secret, something to hide. Perhaps Victor has never really come to terms with his sexuality. 

"You’re thinking awfully hard for a tree lighting." Your voice rumbles in my ear.

I didn’t realise that I had gnawed my bottom lip raw. 

"Just hungry. Thinking about work." I force a smile.

You don’t believe me. “What is it?”

Now Victor turns in my direction. Fuck. Whatever I say to deflect will just make you press more.

A trio of phones go off at once. You, John and Greg all look down. I watch your face mix with annoyance and concern as you read the text message.

"What could your brother want with us?" John asks.

"Get another piece of cake for him," you mutter distantly. "Lestrade, he messaged you too?"

"There has been a breach of security at 10 Downing." Greg nods. He holds up his phone for you to see. "Come at once."

You sigh. “Looks like we’ll miss dinner.”

"Of course. This is for queen and country," I smile weakly.

You lean into me with concern. “Will you be okay getting home?” 

"Of course." I chuckle. Since when have you started to treat me like a wilting flower?

Victors head appears over my shoulder. “I’ll be sure to get her home safely.”

Your jaw tightens and releases. “I will hold you to that, Victor.”

 

 

"I’ll call when I can." With a quick kiss to my forehead, your coat whirls around and glide through the crowd with Greg and John in your wake.

"He does that often?" Victor asks.

"Of course. You should know." A slight bite slips into my words.

"He wasn’t doing this back then." Victor says.

I straighten my back and fix Victor with a heavy gaze. My lips tug up a little as I loop my arm around his. “Then let’s get a bite to eat and you can tell me all about your time with Sherlock at uni.”

His eyes light up. “What a perfect evening! Is there wine at home?”

"Let’s get a bottle." I chirp. "Perhaps two."

He gazes at me from under heavy eyelids. “Definitely two.”

I might be in over my head.

 

 


	54. The Ballad of Victor and Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> School days, school days - oh those golden rule days

A fire still glows and the Christmas tree still twinkles, even at two in the morning. My eyes adjust to the twilight and see Victor in my chair. Shuddering, I pull off my coat and gloves. At least it is warm. Victor balances a half filled glass of wine on the arm of the chair. If he spills, it’s a good enough reason for death, yes?

Quickly I take in the scene.

One empty bottle of wine on the table. Another nearly empty one on the floor beside your chair. An empty glass by sink beside takeaway containers - Angelo’s. You brought him to Angelo’s? The bedroom door is closed.

"She went to bed about an hour ago." He offers.

One in the morning? Curious. Were you waiting for me? 

"We had a lovely evening. We waited for you as long as we could." He smiles sluggishly. 

I nod once. “She knows not to wait up.”

"You leave her like this often, then." He says thoughtfully.

"She knows the work. After all, she lived with me for six months before we embarked on an intimate relationship." I hover beside my chair.

"Sit." He gestures to the chair across from him. "There’s maybe a mouthful of wine left. Lucy can put it away."

"Did she sing for you?" I ease into your chair.

He cocks his head. “No. Does she do that?”

"She has on occasion." 

He tosses his head back in soft laughter. “I’d like to see that.”

"I’m sure you would. What do you want, Victor?" My voice drops.

I’ve avoided being direct with him out of fear of his answer. Now, I want to know. Like you, I could never get a clear read on him. He has masks and walls that I cannot easily peel away. 

"To be your friend, Sherlock. And Lucy’s too. I’ve been so lonely." 

"You don’t live here. Do you not have friends in New York?" I cross one leg over the other.

"Not like you. There hasn’t been anyone like you. I miss us." He sighs.

"Your definition of friendship differs from mine." I say tightly.

"I know I was wrong. I was twenty for Christ’s sake. I tried to apologise." He leans forward.

"I did too. You didn’t accept mine." I narrow my eyes.

He rubs his forehead. “I know. I was… hurt.”

"You took everything from me." I hiss.

"I didn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to do. You cannot blame that on me." His voice raises.

I take a deep breath. “Fine. You are forgiven. Will you leave now?”

"What about being friends?" He frowns.

"Fine. We are friends." I roll my eyes.

"You’re doing that again. Shutting me out. The one person who knows…"

"Knew. You knew me years ago. My friends exist on one hand. John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Mycroft." I count off.

"Where’s Lucy?" He scoffs.

I point to my palm. “She is at the center. Those are the people I trust.”

He settles back and stares into the fire. “She was asking a lot of questions.”

My stomach clenches but I don’t flinch or even blink.

He looks over at me. “You never talk about uni.”

"There’s no need. The past is just that - past." I want to know exactly what version of the truth he told you.

"I guess not the best days of your life?" He muses. 

"They were entertaining for awhile. Then they weren’t." I gaze into the fire.

We sit in silence for a moment. “I had the pleasure of seeing your brother again.”

The corner of my mouth twitches. “And how is Mycroft?”

"The same charming man he was then except with less hair." He smiles. "And more around the middle."

"Cake."

"I see." He nods. "He is very enamoured with Lucy."

He’s trying to bait me. I steeple my hands under my nose and remain silent.

"As only your brother can, he warned me to not interfere." Victor sniffs angrily. 

"I’m surprised he saw you as a threat. I don’t." I shrug casually.

He lowers his eyes. “I think you do. After all, Lucy does have a soft spot for damaged. We’ve bonded over our fathers.”

The heat rises from my skin. “It’s not the same and shame on you for using it to get closer to her. I suggest you take Mycroft’s words to heart, Victor.”  
I stand.

"I’m not looking to come between you, Sherlock." He says. 

"As if you could."

He ignores that. “I just want to be included.”

"Victor, you are merely feeling morose over your fathers impending death and coming at the holidays. You are sadden by Rebecca’s betrayal but you are equally relieved as you never wanted to marry her in the first place. She wasn’t exactly a beard but she wasn’t who you wanted. But that’s the problem Victor. You never knew what you wanted but somehow always got it."

"Not always." His voice trembles.

"Ah, and that is the great wonder of life. We don’t always get what we want, but we get what we need."

"Did you just quote the Rolling Stones?" he grins.

"Did I?"

"Of course you wouldn’t know it." He gazes up. "Is that it? You have what you need?"

"Victor, I have both."

 

* * * * * * 

Sherlock

  
You face the wall, but are not asleep. There is tension in your back and shoulders. It’s possible you heard our conversation in the other room. I sit on the edge of the bed and place my hand on your side. 

"You didn’t have to stay up." I say.

You roll onto your back. “I went to bed late. I was talking with Victor.”

"He mentioned that." I draw my lips into a straight line. "And put away a fair amount of wine."

"That was him. I had two glasses. His head will hurt later today. It was the cheap stuff." You say.

I chuckle. “Serves him right.”

"He told me some fantastic stories from uni." You stretch your arms over your head. 

"Like?"

 

 

"The cadaver you put at your professors desk" You raise an eyebrow.

I shrug. “He had it coming. Sadly that cadaver was more intelligent than the professor.”

"How you blew up all the toilets in the women’s dormitory. When you managed to giving failing marks to those you deemed enemies. How you gave extra financial aid to some less fortunate students." You place your hand over mine.

"A regular Robin Hood." I tease.

"He also told me that you weren’t very well liked. There were bullies and he took care of you." Your voice strains.

I nod. “I’m sure he made his actions seem more heroic than they were.”

"You were very close." Your voice gets smaller.

"Yes." I hold my breath.

Even in the dark, I see you swallow hard. “Sherlock, what was Victor to you back then?”

I blink a few times as realisation takes me over.

"I mean…I know you said that you had a few experiences in university." You take a deep breath. "Was it with him?"

"Is that what he told you?" 

 

 

You shake your head. “Not outright. I didn’t ask him though. I felt that it should….come from you.”

"Would it be a problem if it had?"

Your eyes shine. “N-no….but I should know if we have your former lover staying with us.”

I slide my fingers through yours. “It wasn’t like that. Nothing physical ever occurred between us.”

You don’t believe me. “I should start from the beginning. But it’s late.”

"I don’t care." You blurt.

"Very well then." I curl a leg under me but do not release your hand. "I was never liked at school. Primary. Secondary. I had no friends and I was alone quite a bit. I know this doesn’t shock you. However as a child and young man, I found it bothersome. No one would accept me for who I am. My roommate Sebastian had turned me into the housemaster for my experiments and I was moved into Victor’s room."

I pause. “Victor is everything I am not. Friendly, affable, popular and yet, he tolerated me. Eventually, befriended me. He was my John but with one very big difference - he was homosexual. Not publicly though.” 

I sigh. “What I wasn’t aware is that he fancied me. There have been only a handful of people in my life that I cannot read, cannot deduce. He was the first. You are the second.”

You squeeze my hand. I see the tension slowly lift off your shoulders. 

"I was so thrilled to share something with someone, I didn’t realise that he was more affectionate than the norm. At the time Victor was falling in love with me, another first occurred. I became acquainted with Rosamund. She knew Victor and eventually I gained some social graces and courage. I began to date Rosamund. Of course, Victor wasn’t pleased. He was jealous but I couldn’t see that."

I kick off my shoes. “One drunken night, he kissed me. He was sure I was desired him - like him - hiding my sexuality. He misunderstood our bond. I, being young and a little inebriated, reacted poorly. Our friendship suffered because of that.”

"It makes sense now." You whisper. I detect relief in your voice.

"There’s more. My obsessive behaviour existed back then too and I was engulfed in my sentiment for her. Too much, I know now. Victor and I were repairing our friendship, I thought. One night, I woke to him having sex. I was confused because it was definitely female. Then I heard her cry out."  
All these years, the betrayal I felt then still stings. 

Your hand covers your mouth. “No…”

I nod. “She and I had fumbled about awkwardly. I lost my virginity to her. It had meant something to me, but I was awkward and unsure. Of course, I was crushed.”

"Why would she ever do that?" You ask.

"Young women are fickle." I snarl. "And back then, if you had the choice of gawky me and charming Victor, you’d choose him."

"But he was gay and in love with you."

"That’s why he did it. Rosamund had had a few drinks, but I don’t think she would need much convincing. He went on to date her for a month to spite me."

"That’s crazy." You sigh.

"As you can imagine, I was destroyed. I had opened myself and was betrayed by two people I loved." I look out the window. "That’s when the drug use started. I wanted to escape that useless feeling. I wanted to be a machine. Cocaine made me a gleaming, brilliant machine that did not need Rosamund or Victor."

"Sherlock, I’m sorry." You sit up to wrap your arms around me. 

 

 

 

"There is more." I say. "As I said, Victor and I were very close. He had a very close family - not like mine. So I spent holidays with his family. I had discovered something about his father the summer I stayed with them." I scratch my head. "Trevor Sr. had a male lover. I had observed and drawn my own conclusions. But one day, I saw them in the laundry room. They didn’t know I was there."

"This sounds like EastEnders." You shake your head incredulously. 

I let out a melancholy chuckle. “Among the affluent there is a fair amount of drama because they can afford it.”

"Did you tell Victor?"

"Not when I discovered it. However, one night we had an awful row." I rub the back of my neck. I remember the broken bottles, the yelling and the feeling I was invincible. "I was altered and I let it fly. I told him about his father. What I had seen, what I had deduced. He didn’t take it well. He gave me the scar on my lip. Sent me to A & E."

"Sherlock! He beat you?" 

"He was drunk and enraged. In a way, I deserved it. I had no right to tell him like that. When I got out of the hospital, he had left school."

"I can see why you didn’t want him here." You rub my back.

"Now you understand why I’m skeptical. Victor and his father had an awful falling out after Victor told the mother."

"But aren’t they still married?" You frown.

"Trevor loves his wife, and somehow they make it work." I shrug. "Whatever issues Victor has with his father, I was not privy to those." I sigh. "I saw him a few times while I was at my worst. He wanted to help, but I knew there were strings attached. Despite all the occurred between us, he wanted me." I shook my head. 

"He still does," you say softly. "I don’t like the way he looks at you."

I smile. “Same for you. Right now, he’d shag either of us - perhaps both of us.”

Fear edges your eyes. “You don’t….”

I cover your hand with mine. “Absolutely not. One, I do not desire Victor. Two, I do not share.”

You lie back on the bed. “This is a lot to process, but much different than what I thought.”

I stretch out beside you. “Would that have bothered you?”

You stare at the ceiling. “I would wonder if I was enough. Some of the things we’ve done or you’ve had me do - I would think I wasn’t enough.” You roll to your side to look at me. “I still have those doubts that you will wake up one day and think you could do better. But at least I had the right equipment.”

"You are the only one I want." I brush my lips against yours. 

"Thank you for sharing this with me. I won’t feel so tense around him like he’s going to pop out and say, I shag him better than you."

"Impossible." I mutter, feeling exhaustion close around me. I pull you flush to me. You curl your hand around my neck and bury your fingers into my hair. We kiss languidly too tired for much else.

 


	55. The Summons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock visits Victor the Elder. Lucy learns something about Victor Jr.

 

Lucy

  
"This is a mistake," you mutter in my ear.

"He needs closure. I know he’s a right mess, but this is how we can help," I say.

"And why would we want to do that?" Your frown is deep.

"Because it’s what people do." I settle back against the seat. 

You look out the taxi window with huff. “No one ever accused me of being a person.”

"Try." I give your knee a squeeze.

You only harrumph in response.

 

 

"There was no need for you to come. You didn’t know him." 

I ignore the snide tone and dismiss it as annoyance with the situation - not me. 

"Victor asked if I would come along. I think he thought I would be some kind of stablizer." I say.

"For me? Hardly. He wants you for himself." You grumble.

Once I learned of your and Victor’s true story, I began to relax and feel sorry for him. You hate that he was being ambiguous on purpose. I assured you that it didn’t matter anymore. Victor is lost and lonely. For some reason he’s chosen tether himself to us.

I know you are anxious to see Trevor Sr. Your drug induced outburst was the catalyst for this estrangement. Your fingers drum on my knee as you mutter a private conversation to yourself.

The Trevor house is a miniature version of the Holmes Estate - and that means it is still massive. I lift my hand to ring the bell when Victor pulls the door open breathlessly.

"Thank you both for coming." He pulls me into a tight hug.

I’ve noticed his affections switching since the night you told me. It’s possible he listened outside our bedroom door and has come to terms with you being heterosexual. I gather he is not entirely homosexual - hence his face buried in my neck in the doorway.

I untangle myself from his arms and take your hand before you hit him. “Of course. How is he today?”

"In a lot of pain." He bites his lip.

"Then we shan’t bother him." You turn to leave.

"Sherlock Holmes!" A woman exclaims from beyond the foyer.

You take a deep breath. “Mrs. Trevor.” Your voice is low but respectful. In your eyes, I can see you’d rather set yourself on fire.

"I have been following you, young man!" She throws her arms around you.

I had seen a few old photographs of a young Mummy Holmes at the manor. Mrs. Trevor is what I picture she’d become. She looks fresh from a Burberry advertisement with her plaid and wool. Silvery blonde hair pulled into a loose bun and held together with gold and pearl combs. A cloud of Chanel surrounds her.

When she pulls away, your cheek is marked with a red smudge. She whirls around on me.

"You must be Lucy!" My neck snaps as she hugs me fiercely.

"Um, nice to meet you." 

You roll your eyes in disgust over her shoulder. She pulls away to peer in my face. “You are much prettier in person.”

I look to you quizzically. You frown as well.

"Those magazines." She tuts. "Dreadful business." 

Your eyes narrow. A blush spreads from your neck to your cheeks.

"Magazine?" Victor asks.

She waves him off. “Later, Vic.” She turns back to me. “So you are the one to tame our roguish Sherly.”

"Sherly?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Where is Mr. Trevor Sr.? Is he up for a visit?" You hastily pull off your gloves.

I make a mental note that if I ever want to see you squirm or piss you off, I can pull out Sherly. 

"I told him you were coming." She loops her arm around yours. "He was so chuffed to hear you’d be visiting. He always loved you best out of all Victor’s mates."

You move stiffly beside Mrs. Trevor. I follow behind with Victor. 

"I though Sherlock and your father had a falling out," I say.

"No, that would be me that my father hates." He huffs. "Sherlock was always a golden boy."

I’ve never heard you referred to like that. “But what about…?”

"He told you about that?" Victor slows to put more distance between his mum and us.

I nod apologetically. 

"What else has he told you?" He mutters. He rubs the back of his neck. "Yes, Father was angry with Sherlock. I handled it poorly because Father and I had our own issues. Too much alike. He’s ashamed of his desires and of mine."

"Victor. You shouldn’t have to hide." I touch his arm. 

Blinking rapidly to hide tears, he offers a sad smile. “I hope Sherly knows how lucky he is.”

 

 

He takes a step closer and I freeze. The look in his eye is most primal. 

"Lucy?" I hear your disembodied voice float down the hall.

I rush in your direction and hold your hand tightly. “All right, Holmes?”

"There is a back staircase. We can be home in twenty minutes." Your breath is hot against my cheek.

"We’ll make it quick. Promise." I give your hand a squeeze.

The room smells sick. It is damp with a vapourised mist emanating from a whirring machine in the corner. The smell of concentrated urine cannot be masked by a cinnamon candle burning near a waste bin. An older frail version of Victor is propped against a wall of pillows in a hospital bed. A matronly nurse checks monitors and IV lines. 

Mrs. Trevor whispers in her husband’s ear and his eyes open. A thin smile spreads across his pallid face. A skeletal hands reaches for you. “Sherlock? You came.” 

Your face softens, and I can’t tell if it’s honest or an act. You take his hand and bend closer to hear him.

Victor’s arm wraps around my shoulders. The air is so uncomfortable I could choke. 

"Mr. Trevor would like to speak privately." You announce.

Victor is clearly unnerved. Your eyes are fixed on me.

"I’ll get us some tea." Mrs. Trevor ushers Victor and I out. I attempt to give you a reassuring smile as I slip out of the room. 

"Why would he need to talk to Sherlock alone?" Victor asks.

I shrug. A thousand theories pop to mind, and he wouldn’t like any of them. We are led to an ornate sitting room with wallpaper of large roses and drapes to match. Mrs. Trevor notices my wonder.

"This furniture has been in the Trevor family for centuries. Every decade, we have it restored." Lovingly, she fingers the velvet cushion.

"It’s quite something." I breathe. Gaudy is what you’d say, rightly so.

A maid, dressed like a Anna from Dowton Abbey, pours tea from delicate china. I want to refuse for fear of breaking something. It’s then when I realise how ridiculous life has become. Twice this year I’ve been in homes that could have easily been featured on telly. I expect Robin Leach to pop out of an ornate door.

"So Lucy, that’s such a lovely name…tell me how you met Sherlock." She pushes a plate of biscuits in my direction.

"We were flatmates, Mrs. Trevor." I take one dry looking biscuit to be polite.

"So you lived together?" The inflection in her voice suggests scandal. Like she should judge.

"Yes, but in separate bedrooms." I smile.

"How that lovely inspector was dragged into it. He and Sherlock are friends, yes?" 

Oh Mrs. Trevor loves her gossip.

"Yes, they are. DI Lestrade and I were once….together." I know she’s read some warped version of the truth.

"I did read that. I hope it wasn’t all true." I can hear the tsk in her voice.

"No. There was no truth to the more lascivious details." I state sharply.

"Mother, what on earth are you on about?" Victor interrupts.

"Of course you didn’t see the scandal. Poor Lucy and Sherlock were exposed in one of the worst scandals of our time." She gasps.

"I wouldn’t say of our time," I mutter. In fact, the calls have stopped. Luckily for me, a reality star managed to get knocked up with a royal baby. That pushed us from the limelight. 

"I’ll show you the papers later," she says.

"You kept them?" I ask.

"It was our Sherlock." She places a hand over her heart. "It was such a surprise. I didn’t even think he liked girls."

"Clearly he does, Mother." Victor hisses.

I look to the door. Victor meets my gaze and I know we share the same pained expression.

"Mother, is this a different cook? These biscuits are dry like wood." He deflects.

She sighs. “I told your father her cooking was atrocious. It’s good we aren’t entertaining. I’m sorry Lucy. I’m so embarrassed.” She pulls the plate away.

She goes on to titter about good help being hard to find. I glance over to Victor. Suddenly, he’s no longer a threat. He’s a poor boy who is the Trevor heir to all this poncy furniture and household help. He’s trapped inside what is expected, not able to say that he loves men - that he loved you. I give him a sympathetic smile which brightens his eyes. 

As tea is sipped, Mrs. Trevor’s eyes fix on me. She leans forward and begins her interrogation. What do I do? Where did I go to university? Do I have siblings? She wants to know what makes me tick. What is so special about ordinary me that I snagged the amazing you? The only time she eases up is when she gets to my parents.

"And does Mum and Dad like him? That scandal must have broken their hearts." She shakes her head.

"Mum and I aren’t speaking right now," I say calmly.

Clutching her pearls, she gasps. “Dreadful.”

"She doesn’t approve." I shrug slightly.

She cocks her head. “So you chose Sherlock?”

I smirk. “Just like romance novel, yes.”

"Mother." Victor warns.

"And your father?" 

Suddenly the very vivid memory of machines, that medicine smell and the air of illness floods me. I clasp my hands on my lap tightly.

"He passed away years ago. Cancer." My voice is so soft, I could be whispering.

"Oh dear." That finally breaks the erudite Mrs. Trevor down. "Dear." She leans closer to clasp my folded hands. "Then you understand."

I look to Victor who is about to gnaw a hole in his cheek if he’s not careful. “I do understand.”

She wipes a nonexistent tear. “Oh Vic, why can’t you find a lovely girl like Lucy here?”

His eyes burn through me. “Because the Sherlocks of this world are more interesting.” He breaks his gaze. “Mother, I had a girl if you remember.”

She wrinkles her long nose. “Never cared for Rebecca. An American if you can fathom that.”

"She was just fine." Victor huffs.

"Not so much since she left you for a former lover." She looks to me. "This is why my generation is the greater generation. We didn’t fornicate before marriage. You consummated your love after taking a vow."

Victor is bubbling under the surface. I can practically hear him shout ‘and look where it got Dad!’ 

Approaching footsteps draw attention away from the conversation.

You appear in the doorway - scarf and gloves on.

"How was he, Sherlock?" Mrs. Trevor stands.

"Dying," you simply say.

"Sherlock!" I scold.

"He is resting comfortably now. The nurse gave him a booster of methadone," he says. 

Both Victor and I instinctively search your pupils.

You roll your eyes. “No, there was no sharing.”

Mrs. Trevor doesn’t understand. A part of Victor longs to tarnish you in her eyes. 

"Was it a pleasant visit?" I ask.

"It was….enlightening." You extend your hand to me. "We should go, Lucy. A terrible storm is about to start."

"Did you deduce that from the humidity?" Victor raises an eyebrow.

"No." You hold up your mobile. "I received an alert from the weather station."

Happily, I scurry to my feet.

Victor stands as well. “I’m going with them, Mother.”

"You will do nothing of the sort. Your sisters are coming with their families and we are having Christmas. In case…" Her voice trails off.

You give Mrs. Trevor’s shoulder a squeeze. With a right nod, you say, “It was good to see you again, Mum.”

She looks up at you with delight. “You haven’t called me that in so long.” Her arms pull you into a crushing hug.

I’m next once she releases you. “So good to meet you. Sherlock, don’t let this one slip away.”

Another nod, and I’m whisked out the door.

On cue, big fat snowflakes cover the walkway. You’re quiet in the taxi, your gaze fixed on the falling snow. I sit silently beside you. Several inches stretch between us. I wonder what Mr. Trevor said to you. Your fingers twitch under your chin.

"Aren’t you going to ask?" You don’t turn your head.

"About?" I have so many questions that I wouldn’t know where to start.

"What Trevor said to me. What we discussed." You look over.

"That’s between you and him." I shrug.

"He has a fair amount of regret. In his personal life. The fact he denied who he really was. Put it on a shelf for his family. Then there’s Victor. He wishes he supported him more and his sexuality. He knows that Victor loved me, still does in his way." He gives me a small smile. "He had hoped we’d find our way back - until he saw you. He knew you were special since as he said, the great Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t be with anyone ordinary."

I let out a short laugh. “Hardly. I’m as ordinary as they come.”

Your hand shoots out to wrap around mine. “You are far from ordinary. If it had been up to me, Victor would have slept on the street. You took him in and made him feel at home. Even when you suspected he might have been a lover. You continuously show him compassion. Something that fails me. I still don’t trust him. Maybe I never will again.” You squeeze my hand. “He asked me to look after him when he’s gone.”

"Victor?" I ask.

"He wants us to help him through this." You swallow hard. "I had to tell him that we’d do what we can."

"What does that mean?" I feel my stomach lurch.

"Congratulations, it’s a boy!" 

 

 

 

 


	56. O' Holy Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's another Christmas at Baker Street. Did Sherlock get Lucy a washing machine?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that has been following along. I know Sherlock/OFC is far less interesting than John/Sherlock - so I thank you for patronage.

John Watson

Another Christmas at Baker Street. Everyone says, what a difference a year makes. Those words have never been truer. I look down at the gold band on my finger. Mary bustles about with a bottle of champagne. Last year, you played Lucy’s favourite Christmas carols on violin. This year, you grin openly when she passes you with a lingering touch. I never thought I’d see you so blissfully domestic. Mrs. Hudson beams from what is now Lucy’s chair. She’s so thrilled for her ‘boys’. 

The main difference makes a clatter in the kitchen. Lucy darts through the flat to see what the noise is about. Victor steadies a baking sheet with crab bites. From Lucy’s easy smile, I know that whatever questions she had have been answered to her satisfaction. You watch him warily as he moves about Lucy. Victor beams at her with true adoration. It’s not lustful, but not entirely innocent either.

When you finish ‘Ava Maria’, Lucy crosses the room to press her lips to yours. “Thank you. It’s my favourite.”

"I know." You smile and wink. 

 

 

"They are adorable." Mary whispers.

"There’s an adjective I’d never use to describe Sherlock." I chuckle.

The door open to reveal Mycroft followed by Anthea. You share an amused glance with Lucy before setting your violin down.

"Oh it was just you playing, brother dear. I thought a cat was in heat." His eyes switch to Victor who blanches at the sight of Mycroft. "I stand corrected. A wolf."

"It wouldn’t be Christmas with your unyielding praise." You roll your eyes. "Are you in the habit of bringing your employees along to Christmas parties?"

He shoots you a withering gaze. “Behave, Sherlock. It’s the holidays.”

"Boys." Lucy tuts. She gives the Iceman a hug which he reciprocates warmly. "We’re happy to see you both."

Anthea cracks a smile - almost.

"Let me get your coats." Lucy says.

"Cozy." Mycroft looks about the flat. "Dr. And Mrs. Watson."

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft." I nod. "Anthea."

"Hello Jim." She doesn’t even look at me.

"John."

"Hmm?"

"It’s John. Always John."

"I see you are enjoying Sherlock and Lucy’s generous hospitality, Victor." Mycroft’s voice is sharp bordering on menacing as he looms next Victor.

"Yes, well as I told you, just waiting for Father to die." He tries to sound flip, but I hear the quake in his voice. "Then I’ll go home."

Lucy shoots you a questioning glance. 

'Later' you mouth.

With a peck on Mary’s cheek, I join you by the window.

"This is nice, hmm?" 

"It’s crowded." You dismiss. "Next year we’ll need a bigger flat if we keep inviting more people. Who knows? Donovan? Not Anderson. It’s Christmas and I should only be made to bear some many idiots."

"Come now. This is much better than last year. No proposals, unless…"

You frown. “You can’t be serious.”

"Okay. No proposals. No death threats."

"Just the one, but I don’t take anything uttered from Anderson’s mouth as gospel." You mouth twists.

"You seem, if I dare to venture, happy." I nod.

You cast a gaze across the merry scene. “That would probably be the best description for it.”

"How is the leech?" I nod towards Victor, perched on the outside of the party.

"Oh that. It’s a tenuous truce. His father asked me to look after him when the event happens." He sighs.

"When he dies?" I frown. 

"Afraid so." You wave your hand. "It’s a long story. Lucy will be better with details. After all, she’s done most of the mothering."

I watch victors eyes dart from us to Lucy and Mycroft like a yoyo. She excuses herself to say something to Victor and he positively melts.

"Mother?" I ask. "You’re sure?"

"Yeah, about that. He caught wind of the scandal and went about searching everything he could on it. Idiot thought I wouldn’t check browsing history. Since then he’s been a dog in heat." You hiss.

"For ?"

"Lucy." Your eyes roll. "Probably both of us, but Lucy gives him the attention he craves. He preys on her connection to her fathers death." You ruffle your hair in irritation.

"She cares for you a great deal. She’s no slope either. I’m sure she’s not blind…"

The door opens to a flushed Molly. For the first time, she enters and does not seek you out. Nervous hands smooth the strands of hair coming untucked from an elaborate bun. 

Ever the hostess, Lucy rushes to welcome her and unburden her of a cheesecake. Moments later, Greg bustles in rubbing his hands. 

"Merry Christmas. Sorry I’m late. Bloody tube." He shakes his head. "Hello Molly."

"Greg." Lucy smiles and leans closer for a hug.

"Bollocks, the tube." You announce. "You’re both late because you’ve just had a preparty shag. And judging from Molly’s glow, it was rather recent and a bit rushed."

The room erupts in a chorus of “Sherlock!”

"I mean, congratulations to the new couple." You actually look chagrin. 

I knew I could count on you for at least one awkward moment tonight. Greg averts his eyes from Lucy like he’s guilty. Ever the peacemaker, she hugs him and whispers something that sounds like, “I’m happy for you.”

His blush deepens. “Thanks.”

"Molly, you look lovely." Lucy says and Molly brighten up like a Christmas tree.

Mary turns on the radio which crackles to life.

"You finally fixed that bugger?" I ask.

"Nearly burned eyelashes, but yes." You nod. 

"Suppose we should have a toast?" Mrs. Hudson asks. 

"Right." You hate public speeches. When I told you that you needed to make a speech at my wedding, you turned whiter than usual. 

Victor helps Lucy pass out flutes of champagne. Greg and Molly move closer to one another on the chesterfield. Feeling bold, Molly places her hand on his knee. Mary perches on the arm of your chair to lean across the back. I nuzzle into her touch and watch the fire dance. 

 

 

I’m brought back several years ago when it was just Mrs. Hudson, you and I sitting here on Christmas Eve with tea and biscuits. Then the years I passed Baker Street and everything was cold and dark. The feeling of the emptiness even when I had Mary crushed my chest. Last year was the first Christmas we had you back. It was bittersweet with Greg’s proposal. I scoured the cold London streets to pull you back from talking your own life by the needle. I couldn’t bear to watch you die again. As much as I missed you and certainly hated what you put me through, it all turned out fine. It brought Mary into my life and Lucy into yours. If not for all that, it could very well be mrs. Hudson, you and me. 

"Off in memory land, love?" Mary murmurs.

 

 

"A bit. A lot has changed." I lean into her touch.

"It has." She smiles.

I catch you watching our exchange with a barely recognizable smile. 

Lucy hands you a glass.

"Yes, a toast Sherlock," I say.

"I’m never good at these," you mutter and straighten your suit jacket.

Wrapping an arm around Lucy’s shoulders, you take a deep breath. “Um, thank you for coming to our home tonight. You could be with family or real friends, but you chose here.”

Lucy and I share a frown.

"It’s been a rather boring year - case wise. No good villains anymore." You scowl. 

Lucy bites her lip.

"There was that sex scandal…" You trail off.

"Need me to take over?" Lucy asks.

"No, I have this. I guess what I’m failing to convey that in spite of boring cases and public embarrassment, it was a very good year. And I am pleased that I spent it with all of you." You choke out. "Especially you." Your eyes turn to Lucy. "Merry Christmas."

 

 

"Cheers!" I lift my glass. 

I notice Victor lingering in the kitchen doorway. He only belongs in the context of you and Lucy. Everyone regards him warily, of which he is painfully aware. He watches you and Lucy with a sad longing. 

"Victor, Greg, and John. I need your assistance." He sizes up Mycroft. "You’ll do too."

"I beg your pardon?" He asks.

"Come on. We don’t have all night." You tut.

At the bottom of the staircase is a team of five men and an old stand-up piano.

"What is this?" I ask.

"Lucy’s present." Victor announces with an affectionate chuckle. "She’s going to love it."

"I know. That’s why I bought it for her." Clearly You think Victor is thick. 

After fifteen minutes, one ripped pair of trousers (Mycroft’s), a bruised hand (victor’s) and several expletives (yours) the piano makes its entrance upstairs. You are correct - Lucy does love it. 

"But there is more." You sit on the bench and gesture for her to join you. 

You play an elaborate composition which I’ve never heard. Lucy recognizes it immediately.

"Is this Gershwins Concerto in F?" She gasps. 

With a smile, you nod.

"I didn’t know you knew how to play this." 

"I didn’t, but I wanted to play for you." You lean into her but do not stop playing. Her kiss is so fierce that the melody collapses briefly.

"I didn’t, but I wanted to play for you. I taught myself to play it for you. " You lean into her but do not stop playing. Her kiss is so fierce that the melody collapses briefly.

Victor crosses his arms and leans against the door jamb. 

 

 

"Do you know any Christmas music, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asks. 

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson. This one is for Lucy."

Victor walks into the hallway to answer his phone. 

"He wanted to get her a washer," I whisper to Mary. 

"Don’t be smart." She nudges me. 

The scene is positively idyllic as I see snow falling outside. Greg and Molly are definitely smitten with one another, with their fingers linked. I’m sure you’ll tell me that you could see it coming from a mile away. It doesn’t matter. It’s nice to see them happy. 

Victor interrupts the song by storming across the room to touch Lucy’s shoulder. Your body tenses as you tilt your head to give him a searing glare. Even Mycroft stiffens as if he’s ready for battle. It’s a bizarre moment of brotherly solidarity that is oddly endearing. Only you Holmes boys. 

"It’s Father. He’s ready to go." His voice cracks. 

"Do you need us?" she asks. 

You narrow your eyes. 

"No, stay for your party. But I probably won’t be home tonight. Merry Christmas Sherlock, Lucy." He blinks away tears. 

I see you melt - your face relaxes and I see, compassion? “Take care, Victor.”

 

 

"Thank you." He nods before grabbing his coat off the hook and darting down the stairs. 

"I’ll play more later." You wink. 

Lucy wraps her arms around for a quick squeeze. “Thank you.”

You stand and adjust your button your suit jacket. Clearly you are uncomfortable with the intimate moment you’ve shared with the room.

"Great idea for a gift." I clap your back.

"Better than a washing machine?" You raise an eyebrow.

"Much."

 

* * * * * * 

Victor Trevor

 

My body feels unnaturally heavy as I heave it against the front door. I shake the snow from my coat and hair. The world was completely silent as I wandered home. Home? Yes, I consider Baker Street home for now. There are days when I wish I could stay indefinitely. I know I make him uncomfortable. I did come back with lofty hopes and perhaps a few delusions. You, however, turned out to be a surprise. I never expected to find Sherlock playing house with a woman. And certainly not one so warm. If I had pictured him with anyone, they’d be statuesque and erudite like him. They would be almost cruel in their intellect. They would suffer no one except him and their house would a cold cave in which only they existed. You are none of those things. I know I’m here because of you. From day one, you made me feel comfortable and safe - something I’ve been missing for a very long time. I feel bad that I attempted to mislead you in regards to my past with Sherlock. I was projecting, and hoping. Yet my emotions have always been a jumble and confused. What I want and need blur. I have to say that if I was asked what I want at this moment - it’d be you. Your gentle eyes, wit and even soft curves. 

Lately I’ve had several fantasies where we all live and love together. I have heard these relationships can be successful. We could buy a huge bed for all three of us. We’d make love until were exhausted. You’d fall asleep between us - satiated. We’d have breakfast and take holidays. I’d never be lost or alone. For once, everything I want and need would be within arms reach. 

I pause on the stairs. It’s not possible, this dream of mine. I care and love you both, but you have each other. He tolerates me, barely. You care for me, but it’s not enough. And now that Father is dead, I’ll need to go back to New York. 

Soft piano echoes through the hallway. Blinking, I look to my watch. It’s one in the morning. Quietly, I open the door to not disturb the pianist. 

The flat is tidied after the party. A few wine glasses dry on the kitchen table. Only Christmas lights illuminate the sitting room. The fire has long since died. Sherlock plays the piano softly with your arms around him. I wonder how long you’ve been like this. You are wrapped in his blue dressing gown with your hair damp from a shower. 

Neither of you hear me. Just as I’m about to announce my news, you pull his face to yours for a passionate kiss. You bury your hand in his curls. A low moan escapes from his throat. He twists away from the keys to slip his hands under the dressing gown. 

My throat tightens watching the silken material fall from your shoulder. His full lips burn a path from your neck to your shoulder. I quietly slip behind the frosted glass. I’ll be hidden yet can still watch. I know it’s wrong, and if I’m discovered that I’ll be turned out tonight. When will this opportunity ever present itself?

I lick my cracked lips and crouch as comfortable as possible. I’ve never been a breast person. Given the choice, I prefer a muscular pectoral. But damn, the sight of your full breast with its dark taut nipple causes my cock to swell painfully in my trousers. When his luscious lips close over it, I nearly moan. Quickly, you button his dress shirt. Your hands push the deep red shirt of his shoulders. Fuck. I forgot about the muscles hidden under Sherlocks clothes. I was always taken back when her change in our room. He seemed so lithe and thin then I’d catch sight of his arms or legs. 

Your head dips to graze your teeth over his nipple eliciting a hiss from him. 

I had always wanted to spy on him and Rosamund. What would his moans sound like? Does he come with eyes open? I only wished I could have seen your kinky play. Knowing it happened in the bed I sleep in fills my dreams each night. I’ve watched that grainy video with no sound over and over. You really are equals in the bedroom. Each taking turns in surrender and carefully executed pain. 

I take a deep breath. If I don’t control myself, I’ll make noise. I want to see this to completion.

Your hands rake over his back, still dotted with the freckles I imagined kissing years ago. His back arching against my lips, begging me for more. I see faint scars and fading welts above the waist of his trousers. Knowing you did that to him, I feel a sheen of cold sweat on my forehead. Did he writhe in pleasure? God, did he beg?

He pulls you on to his lap. The look on your face as you peer down at him breaks my heart. I’ve never see such a raw expression of love. If I had delusions that you felt anything more than friendship, they’ve faded now. There’s no room for anyone with you two. 

He kisses you noisily - lips smacking and soft moans at the back of his throat. His chest must be rumbling against you. I swallow hard. 

The dressing gown falls to the floor behind you. Your soft curves are exposed as gooseflesh spreads across rosy skin. God, I want a taste. I bet he’s salty where you are sweet. Your musk hits my nose and my legs buckle for a moment. 

It’s quiet enough to hear the zipper of his trousers. Oh god, please take him in your mouth. Even though I won’t see it, I’ll know. It will be enough.

"Lucy," your voice rumbles.

"Touch me, Sherlock," you purr.

Oh God. I bet you’re wet and ready. How silky smooth you must feel. 

You whisper directions or praise in his ear. Your breath quickens. He shifts his trousers lower on his hips to reveal his perfect arse. The things I could do to it. Grabbing those curls as I make him moan - like you do now. I know you are touching his cock. 

Both hands grab your hips. His gaze is intense as he lifts off the bench. 

"Oh God." He sighs. I know he’s inside you. 

I want to be both of you at once. The bench creaks as you grind yourself down on him. I picture looking up into your half mast gaze. Those nails digging into my flesh. My name falling from your lips as I make you come. Or I could be looking down at him with my legs around him. I can feel his velvet baritone voice filling every part of me. 

I open my eyes to sloppy kisses and sound of muffled keening. In my mind, I see you on your knees before him with me behind you. He and I would lock eyes over the unbreakable chain of flesh and desire.

I rub my erection through my trousers. The wood squeaks under your movements. He groans your name. In my dream, you both call out for me. 

It’s not enough, the friction in my trousers. 

"Sherlock, yes!" You cry. You toss your head back and his mouth attacks your neck. 

A garbled mess of words rip from his lips. 

Fuck, those delicious lips that I’ve felt once before being pushed off them angrily. The ten seconds before he registered what was happening were the best I’ve known.

The creaking slows and I know I need to leave now. I’m throbbing and in pain. 

I retreat to the sounds of your soft chuckles.

"We christened the piano." You pant.

"Or at least the bench." I can hear his smile. Without seeing his face, I know those luminous blue eyes are shining up in your face. His cheeks are most likely flushed and splotchy. I bet he looks as beautiful as you do right now. Sweaty. Disheveled. Blissful. 

Stealthily as possible, I crawl to the stairs. The last image I see of you both - arms entwined and lazy kisses through smiling lips. Carefully, I creep up the stairs. I hope you are both too tired to hear the floorboards under my feet. I barely make it to my room before I’m pulling on my trousers. Shoving a pillow in my mouth, I pump my cock violently. All that I saw and heard mixes with my fantasies of you, of him. It takes seconds for my fingers to be covered. I bite my lip so hard that I taste blood. The room spins for a moment. I haven’t come that hard in years.

I don’t bother to clean myself up. I barely have enough energy to strip off the rest of my clothes and pull back the sheets. Shivering into cold sheets, I know you and Sherlock are curled around each other in your warm bed. Kisses and declarations of love are being whispered into warm skin. I feel like an empty shell. Rolling over, my body shakes are the tears wet the pillow. 


	57. Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor Sr. is finally at peace. Victor Jr. has two eulogies - which does he choose?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely, lovely notes I have received. I have to admit that I really do love these characters. So much that watching Season 3 was a bit surreal for me. I feel I own them along with Mark and Steven - which is utter madness - I know. Thank you for enjoying my labour of love, my sanity in my crazy world of family, work and juggling it all. 
> 
> Thank you!

Sherlock

 

"Well, he’s dead." Victor announces.

Your knife is mid-air while I pause with the teacup inches from my lips.

"Merry Christmas," I say.

You shoot me a reproachful look. “I’m so sorry.” The knife is forgotten along with the scones Mrs. Hudson brought us. Your arms pull him into a hug. “How are you?”

He chuckles strangely. “Empty. I should feel more than I do, you know?”

"It’s a shock." You pat his arm.

"How is it a shock? He was sick for months." I frown.

Another searing glare. “If you can’t be helpful.”

Merry Christmas to me. I’ve at least been spared Mary’s brunch. Not that the company isn’t pleasant, and Mary has come along on the domestic chore of cooking. We dress and head to Trevor house.

If I thought last years Christmas of being plucked from a dingy alley and tossed into my room for my own good was depressing, this pales it. Mrs. Trevor flails into the arms of anyone that walks into the house. Her death grips crushes my lungs. The Trevor sisters manage to glower while sniffling. All of the Trevor’s well-to-do friends stop by to offer barely heartfelt condolences. 

In the middle of all this, Victor holds on to you for his anchor. I can’t help the jealousy bubbling in my gut. I know I have nothing to fear. I can see you care about him if for nothing but the fact that you can relate to his misery. Doesn’t mean I like his hands on you. Or the fact that Drucilla uncoils from the sofa to approach.

"Vic, is this your new woman?" Her examination is scathing.

"No, just a friend. She’s with Sherlock," he shakes his head. "This is Lucy."

"I’m sorry for your loss." You offer your hand.

"Sherlock? When you say with, do mean sidekick?" 

"No." I interject.

She frowns. “Do you help him solve crimes?”

You give me a small smile. “Sometimes.”

"Then what is that you do?" She huffs impetuously.

Your eyes ice over. “I satisfy his voracious sexual appetite.”

Victor chokes on his tea. Drucilla’s mouth hangs open.

I stride over to drop a slightly obscene kiss to your mouth. “Very good Lucy. I always enjoy when your tongue lets loose.”

 

You raise an eyebrow. “Case in point.”

"I thought you were a pouf." She sneers.

Victor pales as he averts his eyes. 

"Would that be so horrible?" I ask. 

Owns two cats. On-line dating profile hasn’t been looked at in days. Failed relationship with married co-worker. Breast augmentation still causes pain. Slept with sister’s husband. I glance to Penelope who bounces a toddler on her knee. Her husband wrings his hands. The act was just days after the birth of this child. 

"No, not awful. Just always thought you had a thing for Vic." She shrugs. "Followed him like a puppy."

"No Dru, it was the other way around." Victor spits. 

I’m taken back as Victor offers a weak smile before snatching the babbling toddler from Penelope. “Come see Uncle Victor.”

The Trevor family wastes no time in getting Victor Sr. in the ground. The wake is Boxing Day. No one seems to pleased by that. The funeral follows the morning after. I fail to see why we must go, but you insist. Victor has appealed to your kind nature. I think he’s taking advantage of the situation. Your heart bleeds for his sad eyes and melancholy voice. Too easily he heaves his sagging form into your arms while I pace the room. He sobs like a woman, for someone who didn’t get along with his father.

It’s an unseasonably warm December morning. The sun shines bright for Trevor Sr. I return from the cafe with coffees for all. I hear voices in our bedroom. Instead of announcing my arrival, I pause near the door.

"My hands won’t stop shaking," Victor says.

"Is it the eulogy?" You ask.

"Maybe. As the only son, of course I have to deliver it. What do I say about man who was ashamed his entire life?" He sighs.

"Try to focus on what he meant to your community or represented to the family." You offer. Always the diplomat.

"A coward? A hypocrite?" His voice cracks.

"Hold still so I can get your tie."

"Do I look presentable?" 

"Of course. He’d be proud."

Victor snorts. “Unlikely. In my pocket, I have two eulogies. One tells the truth, and the other my mother would like.”

You pause. “That’s your decision. You do what you feel is best.”

"You sound like a mother." He chuckles.

"I live with Sherlock. Someone has to be the moral majority."

I smile. 

"My sister should be doing this." He grumbles.

"The pleasant one?" You ask.

"Oh, Dru? She lives in France because it’s the only country that can tolerate her rudeness." 

Soft laughter erupts from you.

I should have known. The rudeness. Preoccupation with sexual orientation. Lack of knowledge in regards to who you are to me. She hadn’t seen the tabloids. 

His breath catches. “We never really came to terms with each other.”

"He loved you very much." The tenderness in your voice sends a shiver down my spine. 

"He was bitter right till the end. We last spoke Christmas Eve morning. By the time I got there that night, he’d lost consciousness. I only wished we said we loved each other one more time." He sobs.

"He was worried about. He cared." You cajole. "He asked us to take care of you. He knew how his death would affect you."

A sniffle. “He did? When?”

"When Sherlock went to visit. He asked that we take care of you."

Bugger. We will never get rid of him now. He’ll hold on to that for as long as he can.

"He shouldn’t have done that. It’s not your responsibility. You have your own lives." He mutters.

"Doesn’t mean we can’t care about you, Victor."

I can tell his arms around you and that he is dangerously close.

"Lucy, I just adore you. I often wonder what it’s like to be lucky like Sherlock." He whispers.

I hear clothes or bodies shuffling. I don’t know what to do. Has he forced himself on you? Are you taken in by his sorrow?

"Victor." You protest softly. "Victor." Your voice is forceful. "I’ll let this time slide and chalk it up to grief. If you try that again, I’ll tell Sherlock and let him deal with you accordingly."

I grin triumphantly.

"Jesus, I’m sorry. You’ve been so kind and I go and do this." He waffles.

"As I said, we can forget it. But you need to get your head about you, hmm?" Your irritation is palpable.

I slink back towards the door silently.

"Here we are. Three coffees." I announce.

You and Victor join me in the kitchen. You’ve done a very nice Windsor knot for him. I drop a kiss to your lips.

"You look lovely, for a funeral." I say.

 

"As do you, Mr. Holmes." You know I heard it all. I’m not sure what gave me away, but I see it in your eyes. You seem very satisfied that you handled Victor in your way, without embarrassment. 

Victor knows too. He’s clumsy and edgy around me. He won’t meet my eye knowing that he’s breached my trust. When he first crossed our threshold, I was convinced it would me pushing him off. After all these years, he never comes up short for a surprise.


	58. Here Comes the Boom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a new case that is not easy to solve

John Watson

"In the end, Victor chose the honest speech, but it was really the wrong moment." You step back to gaze at the map of England tacked to the wall.

 

 

"A bit thick, that one." At least he wasn’t here. He hovers and makes me uncomfortable.

"Impulsive at the very least." You nod distracted.

Five burglaries in different neighbourhoods. All jewelry with birthstones. Not as grand as murder. You called it a ‘5’ at best. I think you are trying to find something deeper or juicier. 

"He’s still here then?" I see his shoes by the door. A scarf next to the drying Christmas tree.

"Hmm? Victor? Yes." You growl. "His mother didn’t want him staying at the house after THAT eulogy."

"Guess not. How long is he here?" 

"Not sure. There’s a reading of will to consider…"He turns around. "Why do you care?"

"Just making conversation." With Victor around, you are irritable and moodier than usual. Lucy’s attention is divided, and you loath that immensely. Such a spoiled child. I look over the piano nestled in the corner near the desk. "Is that new?"

"Yes. That was one of my Christmas gifts." You steeple your hands under your nose.

 

 

I look at the lovely black and white photograph of a beach before it storms over the piano.”What is it?”

"A photograph of the beach in Eastbourne, you know, the one she fled to after your wedding."

"Oh…" I snap my fingers. "I thought it looked familiar."

"It was where we first, declared ourselves officially. Sentiment." You trip over your words - a rarity. Are you blushing?

"That’s very sweet and really thoughtful. A lovely present."

"She also knitted the scarf I wore today." 

"I didn’t know she knit." I shrug.

"She did it at work and nights I was away. She doesn’t knit very well. It’s a bit lopsided and very lumpy."

 

 

I smile. “What did she say when you told her that?”

You look away from the map. “I didn’t.” You unbutton your jacket. “She also got me a belt.”

"Belt? I’ve never seen you wear a belt." I muse.

A lustful smirk spreads slowly on your face. “I don’t.”

You hold a challenging gaze. “Oh, um, very good then.” I stand to also look at the map. “So, what are we looking for?”

"Sense. A connection. A reason."

 

 

"Are the dates of the robberies mean anything?" I ask.

You grab the calendar. “Perhaps. Let’s look at the dates.”

"The started in September. First gemstone ring taken, a garnet. Next an amethyst." I call off as you mark. 

"The next aquamarine. When?" You ask.

"Middle of December."

"And a diamond?" You grab the calendar from my hands. "Middle of December you say?"

"No, they went right to the emerald." I shake my head.

"Makes no sense." You rub the back of your neck as you look at the map, the gems and the calendar. You repeat that pattern a few times, then pace. Pressing your fingers to your temple, your eyes squeeze tight. You look back to wall, almost stricken.

"What? Do you have it?" I ask.

 

 

"Need more data." You run off to the bathroom. I hear the wastebin dump on the floor. Contents of the medicine cabinet spill in the sink. What are you looking for? You dart from the bathroom to the kitchen and sort through the rubbish there.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"Not now John." You holler. 

Watching you work is always exhausting. I listen to things scatter and drawers open and slam shut. I can’t make out what you are muttering. I think I hear “impossible.” 

You grab the calendar again and flip back and forth. Your mouth moves but there’s no sound. You gaze fixes to the wall. Your eyes dart around all the papers tacked in only a pattern you understand.

 

 

"So, what is it?" I ask impatiently.

You are muttering in French, and a light sheen of sweat glistens your brow. “No, no…”

"Is it murder?"

You stop and straighten like a rail. 

 

 

"Well," you break your daze. You glance to me with a sheer look of terror. "I need more data, but if my calculations are correct, and they are rarely wrong, I am going to be a father."


	59. Something's Got Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do two pink lines mean?

Lucy

 

I chug the rest of the water bottle down. “Okay, I’m ready. Hand me the next one.”

"How many are you going to take?" Rachel asks.

"Until I’m convinced." I rip open the foil packet. "What does that one say?"

"It has two lines. What does that mean?" She looks up from the edge of the tub.

 

 

"Where the box?" 

"In the other room. I’ll get it." She takes off.

I manage to pee all over my hand again. Why can’t they make these bloody things easier? Carefully, I lay it beside two other urine soaked sticks.

Rachel returns with three boxes in her hand. “Did you need three?”

"I wanted to be sure." My head pounds.

Granted, there wasn’t much sleep last night. Victor had gone out and you took full advantage of having the flat to ourselves. It is your hope that Victor will be out at the beginning of the year and we can resume our life as normal. I’m not so sure right now.

"Here are all the boxes." She places on the vanity.

 

 

I snatch up the first test. “Is that second line dark enough.”

"Um, it looks pretty dark." She sees the panic in my eyes. "But let’s look at the others, shall we?"

I alternately stare at the tile on her bathroom floor and my watch. 

 

 

"Oh, this one has a smiley face." You chime. "What does that mean?"

"It’s depends on your perspective." I answer gravely.

"According to the box…well…let’s look at another." She scrambles.

I hold up the one that not only says PREGNANT but has a smiley face. “That’s fairly undisputed proof.”

 

 

Rachel’s shoulders sag in defeat. “Is this so terrible?” She gasps. “It’s Sherlock’s isn’t it?”

"Rachel! Of course it is!" I swat her arm.

"You do have that bloke staying with you. You said so yerself he was a dish." She shrugs.

"I wouldn’t sleep with Victor. Besides Victor is," I realise that there is no defining him, "I don’t really know what he is. But no, I have not been with another man since Greg."

"But they did overlap." She offers.

"Not helpful." I growl. Tears are prickling in the corners of my eyes.

"Oh dear. Come here." Rachel holds out her arms. "Did you not want children?"

"I did." I nod against her shoulder.

"Just not with, you know…" Her voice trails off.

"I just never thought about it to be honest." My face is wet against her blouse.

"Are you on birth control?" She asks.

"No."

"Do you use condoms?" She pulls away.

"Sometimes. He faithfully tracks my cycle." I sniff.

She raises an eyebrow. “What?”

"On a calendar. He has since I moved in." I wipe my eyes. By the look on her face, she thinks it is a mad process.

"That’s, erm. Lucy, that’s bloody odd, to be frank." She shakes her head.

"It’s him." I smile a little.

Perhaps I am the only woman to appreciate that odd fact. Standing outside of us, yes it is mental. In our cocoon, it’s romantic.

"Have you been tested? I mean….former lovers," she says.

"He didn’t really have any. Just at uni about fifteen years ago. But he was tested because of the drugs."

Both eyebrows shoot upward. “The drugs?”

"Also years ago, when he was an IV user." God I hate this conversation.

"I can see why you are put off by this, Luce." She scratches her head.

"We’ve never discussed long term. Sure, sometimes it bothered me. I always go into a relationship thinking, is this for the long haul? With him, I just let it happen. I decided to ride it out. And it’s very good most days - save for snipers and the like." I gnaw on my bottom lip. "But what if he doesn’t ever want kids?"

"He should have wrapped his willy if that was the case." She snorts.

"Am I prepared to be a mum? Who do I have to look to?" I sigh.

She places her hands on my shoulders. “Lucy, you’ll be a great mum because you know what not to do. I have no doubt you can do it. But are you safe with him? Look at your life since you moved in there. It’s a bit ridiculous.” 

I know she is 100% right. What right do I have bringing a wee one into that mess of chemicals and crooks? Of body parts and chaos? I’ve just added one more target into the world. Right now, I don’t mind you running off at all hours. How will I feel with a crying child? 

"I don’t know what I’m going to do, Rach." And again the tears fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I've had so many views lately, I'm extremely chuffed. I am glad people are enjoying the story. I have a few more chapters left of Sherlock as a Flatmate. This is a short one. I promise a longer one is coming.


	60. The Heir to Holmes Throne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has an arsehole......

Sherlock

 

"You should probably eat." John looks up from his pasta.

"I’m not hungry." I stare out the window. 

Life has slowed down and raced out of control in one quick deduction. The burglaries have left my mind as there is no room for them now. As John and I walked to Angelo’s ( his suggestion when I had gone catatonic) we passed a woman pushing a pram. I almost vomited on the street. My skins is slick with sweat and cold to the touch.

A baby. An infant. Another life force. Bits of you and pieces of me growing in your uterus, now a womb. As John looked at the menu, I calculated the gestational time from your last menstrual cycle. This zygote was smaller than a lentil but more powerful than a giant. You are between six to seven weeks along. I rub my temple. Perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s possible that you are just late. The stress of the holidays along with Victor’s arrival. It’s possible. Yet you must be aware on some level. Though you’ve given me no indication that it is a worry on your mind. At least not last night. I run a hand over my face. What would pregnancy do to that?

"You really think she’s pregnant?" John leans his elbows on the table.

"She definitely has not menstruated in the last month. She should have gotten it around the time Victor infiltrated the flat." My fingers drum on the table.

"Could be stress. Mary had a scare a few months after we started dating. Just turned out to be work." John shrugs. "Any mood swings or bizarre illnesses?"

"No. She has been fine. She did think the milk had turned this morning when she put it in her coffee, yet it was not spoiled at all." The taste had put you off this morning.

He pushes his pasta around his plate and steals glances at me. “Do you use, ah, protection?”

I frown. “Protection?”

"Yes. Birth control. Condoms, prophylactics," he clears his throat. "Rubbers."

I look away. “On occasion.”

He grins. “You, the smartest man in almost any room…”

"Every room, John." I interject.

He shakes his head with annoyance. “Whatever, you should know better. And with your past. You really should be more careful.”

"Are you alluding to my past drug use? I’ve been tested. As has she because of her extensive sexual past."

"She’d be delighted to hear you tell me that." He mutters.

"She should. Multiple partners suggest that she is well desired and good at it." It used to vex me that you had so many lovers before me. I felt I had a steep learning curve ahead of me. However, neither of us were prepared for our sexual compatibility. Least of all, you.

John’s cheeks are dark red. “In any case, unless you were using birth control all the time, you had to be prepared for this. Did you ever talk about this?”

I look away. “No. We are not ‘let’s get married’ people.” I sigh.

"Every woman is ‘let’s get married’. They just don’t admit it."

We sit in silence for a moment. Is that where this is heading? Another ceremony and another promise? 

"What now?" He asks.

I shrug dismissively. I feel numb and terrified. I have no right being your lover. It’s absurd enough that you let me under your skin. A father? What do I know of that? John would be a great father. Dependable, caring, squishy. 

"You have to have some thoughts." He stares at my blank face. "This could be the making of you."

I snort. “What kind of foolishness is that?”

He shrugs as he tucks back into his pasta. “I’m just saying, this could be a good thing. Nothing to be scared of.”

"I’m not scared." I scoff. He knows I’m lying.

My nonchalance is wearing on him. He’s pursing his lips and his gaze has turned to a glare.

"Just remember, Sherlock Holmes, that this is a blessing. It’s a miracle and I implore you to treat it as such." He hisses.

"It was an accident." I counter.

He slams his fork down. “You know, there are couples out there trying and doing all sorts of medical procedures just to get pregnant.” He takes a deep breath. “Mary and I have been trying since the wedding and it’s not easy.”

"I beg to differ, John." I raise an eyebrow.

"You cock. Shut up right now." He growls.

"I had no idea that I possessed such virility." I shrug.

"I said to shut thee fuck up." His breath is heaving.

It seems I’ve struck a nerve. He thinks it is him, that he’s the reason they haven’t concieved. He worries it has something to do with the war, even though that notion is ridiculous. 

"You really don’t want this, do you?" He blinks. 

I can only shrug. It’s not often that I am at a loss for words, but you seem to be able to achieve that. 

He sits back and regards me with astonishment. “I really thought that you had changed. You seemed like you had grown so much with Lucy. I see you’re still the selfish bastard I met all those years ago.”

I have no response. It all goes back to caring being a disadvantage. I should have known the risks in our sex life. However, you have always clouded my head - and I can’t think straight in regards to you. Drugs were an addiction and I was reckless in my pursuit of the high. You are my current addiction - and look where it has gotten us. Standing at the edge of something I’m not sure we are ready for.

"So what you going to do? Ask her to terminate? Adoption?" He gives me that angry sneer of his.

"No no. I might be a sociopath but I’m not heartless." I could never destroy our child. If I leave, it’s only to ensure its safety.

"I’d say you’ve proven you are a situational sociopath." He nods.

My attempt to level him with a glare fails.

"What does that leave?" His leg bounces angrily under the table. At any moment, he will lunge at me.

"Go undercover for the government. Mycroft has been itching for me to work for him." I glance out the window at the gathering dark.

"You’d leave her to do this all on her own? You colossal wanker." He spits.

"John, can you honestly see me bouncing a baby on me knee? Changing nappies?" I snarl. "My life is dangerous. For Christ’s sake, Lucy has a huge blooming scar that is a constant reminder. I cannot do that to a child. My innocent child. They would both be better off with Lestrade or better yet, you."

He forces a humorless laugh. “Well that’s bloody great. Have you forgotten that I’m married and Greg has moved on. Something you were very keen on just days ago.”

"Lestrade still loves her. He’d be more than happy to take my place." I swallow hard. I don’t fancy that option either.

John pushes his plate away.

"Is that what you want? To leave a woman you love? And don’t even try to convince me this is all an act for the last year. I saw you in Eastbourne. I was there!"

Eyes turn to us. “Shhh.” We should have discussed this at the flat.

I drop my voice to a threatening level. “Leaving her would be the hardest thing I’ve ever done, tougher than leaving you. So don’t think for one moment this is easy for me.”

He takes a deep breath. “You need to think this through. Promise me you will make no decision until you talk with me?”

"What if she brings it up? Plans a big announcement?" Panic sets I and my heart races. How could I be so stupid?

"Then be the actor you seem to think you are and pretend to be happy. Besides, she knows you. I’m sure she is just as frightened."

Are you happy? Is this something you want? We’ve never discussed much beyond a week at a time. I never like to think too far ahead. Are you disappointed it was me and not the guy that would come after me, after I’ve fouled it beyond repair?

"We’ll need to talk," I say softly. "I’ll wait for her. It’s her news to tell."

He cocks his head with a frown. “You think you can keep your mouth shut then?” 

"I can endeavour to." I purse my lips and watch the rain patter on the window.

I flag a taxi for John and decide to walk. He leaves me with what I’m sure are sage words of advice. I don’t really hear them. I have no idea where you are. It’s past six and I haven’t heard from you. Victor has asked if he was on his own for dinner not having heard from either of us. I don’t answer him.

I barely notice the car pull up beside me. Of course. I should have expected this.

"Anthea." I nod as I climb in beside her.

"Sherlock." She barely glances from her phone.

"Where are we headed this evening?" I look out the window.

"Diogenes club, of course."

"Of course." I tap out a text to John.

Did you tell him? SH

A few seconds later, my phone buzzes.

Who - JW

Mycroft. I’ve been hijacked - SH

It’s Mycroft. Who knows how he knows anything? JW

Keep me updated or if you need a rescue - JW

I settle back in the leather seat. “And how are you?”

"Hmm?" She doesn’t look up. "The same as two days ago."

"I see." I roll my eyes.

"Will you convey my gratitude to Lucy for her warm hospitality?" She glances up.

"Anthea," I smirk. "Mycroft’s making you soppy."

"You should talk." She raises an eyebrow.

Mycroft’s room is empty. Tucking my hands inside the pocket of my coat, I wait. My phone buzzes.

Where are you? - L

My chest tightens.

Mycroft summoned me on my way home - SH

What did you do? - L

I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough - SH

Send him my love - L

Grumble - SH

Perhaps you are blissfully unaware. I envy you for the moment. It’s just a Monday to you. 

"Brother," Mycroft enters. 

"Mycroft." I do not move.

He wanders to his bar and pours two scotches. It’s the expensive single malt. Whatever he has to say will be unpleasant.

Wordlessly, he hands me a crystal tumbler. I take it with annoyance. He settles into a leather chair.

"I hear congratulations are in order."

I close my eyes. “What have I told you about cameras in my flat?”

He chuckles. “I have no interest in your private life. I’ve seen all I need to see.”

"So has everyone else." I shrug.

"Please sit." He gestures to the larger seat beside him. Still overcompensating with furniture.

"I don’t care to." I shrug again.

"Sherlock Holmes, you will sit and listen to what I have to say." He states rather impatiently.

I know it’s best to play along so I can get out of here.

"Fine." I toss myself into the chair impetuously.

"I do monitor Lucy as I keep a watchful eye over the family. I saw her purchase the tests." He crosses one leg over the other.

My heart drops. Suddenly my saliva feels like glue. “So she suspects as well? It makes perfect sense she’d not take a test at home. But why?”

"Why do you think?" He cocks his head.

"She doesn’t feel safe. She’s unsure herself. She suspects I might have reservations." The heat in the office is all at once stifling. I open my coat and jacket.

"Sherlock, we both know that Lucy is the best thing to happen to you." He leans forward.

"Doesn’t that go against everything you’ve taught me about sentiment and caring?" I glare. "No one person can be salvation. People die or leave. Then what’s left?" I tap my temple. "This. This is my salvation. This is all I should need."

"Then you should have worn a condom. For a genius, that was incredibly moronic." He barks. "You’re scared, brother. And you should be. This is bigger than John, Lucy or yourself. This is an heir. Between you both, this child will be exceptional. Now go home, Sherlock. You have a nursery to decorate."

"Just because she took tests, doesn’t mean they were positive." I take a large sip of scotch to calm my nerves. I don’t even appreciate the taste. My hand trembles a little. I open and close my fist to get a hold of myself.

He settles back into his chair. “They are, brother dear.”

"How could you know that?" My face falls. "Did you really rummage through her rubbish?"

He sniggers. “I certainly didn’t. Will you be working John into the name? I don’t dare to hope that you can fit Mycroft in.”

"Certainly not if its a girl." I retort and then realise what I’ve just said.


	61. How could you want him when you can have me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy seeks to confide in a friend

Lucy

 

Images flick by on the telly, but they mean nothing to me. The flat is empty and it feels cavernous. An hour ago, you texted me that you were with Mycroft. A new case? More meetings about Victor? 

My stomach rumbles with hunger, but the nausea comes in waves. Usually when I think about the next nine months.

When I pictured this moment, it was not filled with uncertainty and dread. I envisioned wanting to keep the tests as a memento. I’d try to come up with a clever way to tell my husband like a diaper cake or a tiny football vest. How do I tell you? Tiny chemistry kit? But I don’t expect you to gather me in your arms with glee. There will be no FaceTime with family as we bubble with excitement.

It’s now well over an hour since your last text. Usually, I don’t care. I’m used to your odd hours. For you to disappear for almost 48 hours is rare but not out of the question. How am I going to feel at home with a sick baby? I’m nervous enough when you are out doing what you do. Now I have the burden of worrying for two.

My hand slips to my stomach. Your little bundle of liability. I know I’m your weakness. If a criminal wants to get to you, they come through me. Moriarty made that plain and Irene’s sniper solidified it. I’m carrying a huge target. How can you not resent how this ties your hands? 

My fists ball up as I fight tears. My mobile buzzes on the corner of your chair. It’s you. I take a deep breath.

"How is Mycroft?" I try to steady my voice.

"Annoying as usual." You are outside. I can hear your winded walk and distant cars.

"What did he want?" I try to sound casual.

"He wanted me to look into the disappearance of some computer equipment at Buckingham Palace. That’s what NYS is for." You sound annoyed. "Is Victor there?"

"No, I haven’t heard from him." 

"Hmm. He asked me if he was on his own for dinner. Useless." You huff.

"Are you on your way home?" There’s no way that my voice doesn’t sound tight. 

"I’m working late at the lab tonight. Not sure when I’ll be home." You blurt.

"Okay then." I want to shout it out so I don’t have to carry this on my own.

"I’ll try not to wake you when I come home."

"I’ll leave some dinner for you." 

"No need. I stopped for chips." You can’t wait to get off the phone.

"I’ll see you tomorrow then. The party, right?" I feel my heart break a part in my chest. I cover my mouth to prevent from vomitting.

You sigh heavily. “I guess if we must.”

You sound strained and irritable. You know. Somehow, you deduced it. Now, you are avoiding me and the conversation we need to have. Women, past loves and murders could have driven us apart but it all comes down to a little baby. The room spins violently.

"You don’t have to. Victor can take me." It’s a low blow - I know.

"No, of course I’ll go." You snap. "It’s New Year’s Eve."

"Okay then. Be careful if you’re chasing bad guys." I say weakly.

"Not in a lab. I just hope Molly and Lestrade don’t use that as a rendez-vous spot." 

There is silence.

"Sorry, I forget you were with him." 

"It’s okay. I’m really happy for him - and her." I can’t help but think how absolutely chuffed Greg would be if I’d been pregnant with his baby.

"Night Lucy."

"Goodnight Sherlock." I toss the phone onto my chair. "I’m having your baby." 

I lean my head back and stare at the cracks in the ceiling. I know the footsteps are not yours. A tiny part wishes they were yours and you would burst through the door, radiant with the thought of being father.

"Hello," Victor chimes. 

"Evening Victor." I smile.

"Where is his nibs?" He glances around.

"Lab." I shrug. "Just us tonight."

He grins widely. “Grand. We can watch telly without his input.”

Since the little infraction before the funeral, he’s been on his best behaviour. Helpful almost, much to your dismay. 

I nod absentmindedly with my gaze deep into the telly.

"Anything good on tonight?" he asks.

"Downton Abbey is new, " I say. 

"I guess if that’s it. This season is missing something." He hangs his overcoat on the hook."What’s wrong Lucy?"

I look up surprised. I thought I was holding together remarkably well. “Nothing, I’m fine.”

"You can tell me. I can see you are shaken."

With his comforting words, the thin threads of composure start to fray and break. I don’t even realise I’m trembling.

"It’s nothing." I look away so he can’t see the tears build.

"You’re starting to scare me." He peers closer. "I’m calling Sherlock."

"No don’t. Please do not call him." I plead.

Victor scowls. “This has to so with him. What did he do? I swear, I’ll thump him out if he hurt you.”

I shake my head. “It’s not like that.” I sigh heavily. I am perishing in my own mind. I don’t have you to talk to and I’m going a bit mental. “If I talk to you about this, you can talk to no one else.”

"This serious." He runs a hand through his hair. "Shit, are you okay? Are you in trouble? Are you sick?"

"Not as such." My voice quakes.

He stares at the hand that has subconsciously moved to my belly.

"Bloody hell. You are pregnant."

The dam breaks and the tears fall without end. My body shakes against the sobs. Victor collapses in front of me to cover my hands with his.

"Oh Lucy. Why are you crying?"

How do I verbalise my fears? How I’m terrified of the look in your eyes when I tell you? How you’ll feel trapped?

His eyes fly wide. “It is Sherlock’s, right?”

"Of course it is!" I exclaim.

He draws his eyebrows together. “Then what’s wrong?”

I wipe my face. “Can you see him as a father?”

"Well…"

"Can you see him ever wanting that?" I ask.

"It’s not something I would ever consider." He offers a weak small. "But this is from the man who hoped he was gay."

I smile despite the loneliness inside. “He’ll hate this.”

"Maybe not. He loves you very much. I didn’t think he had it in him, to be frank. But he cares very deeply for you."

"Yes, when he could come home and shag me rotten after a case. But this is responsibility like he’s never known, or wanted." The terror builds again. "I feel like I will be doing this on my own. We never had a long term goal for this. It was always take it day by day. Do I think he’ll turn his back at the start? Maybe not. He’ll slowly drift away. Be busier. Stay out later. Take unnecessary risks, just to not be stuck in this oppressive flat with wailing babies and dirty nappies."

Victor wants to reassure me, but I can see the doubt in his eyes as well. We both know you for the junkie that you are - be it drugs, adrenalin, or me.

He squeezes my hands. One hand brushes a lock of hair from my face. “I don’t think that’s true. However, if for some reason Sherlock pulls a disappearing act, I’m here for you. Both of you.”

"That’s very sweet, Victor." I sniffle.

"It’s not sweet. It’s selfish. He’s very lucky and I’m envious he’s built a life for himself that includes a person like you." He ducks his head. "You know I adore you, Lucy."

"Victor." I laugh uneasily. "You’re gay. How would that work?"

"You know I’m not gay, Lucy. Yes, I love Sherlock in a way he doesn’t appreciate. I own that. But you are just as amazing. I’d take care of you both if he doesn’t want to - or just can’t. You don’t have to say anything. Just know that I’m here for you. I’ll be anything you need." He peers earnestly into my eyes. And I believe him. I can feel his adoration though it’s different from what I get from you. Oddly, I am comforted by his words. 

"I need a friend right now." I squeeze his hand. "I’m afraid of what tomorrow will bring, and I just need to be held."

"I can do that." He wraps his arms around me and allows me to fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone. This is a short episode. They are two more chapters left!


	62. Nothing Changes on New Year's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Should old acquaintances be forgotten?

Sherlock

 

The flat is still when I get home sometime after midnight. Thankfully, the lab was empty and I was able to work in relative peace. Unfortunately, my mind would not quiet against the thought of your pregnancy. 

I place my hand on the television. It’s cold. You’ve gone to bed at least an hour ago. I look around. Everything is in its proper place. I see a note on the refrigerator - ‘left over Thai for you - L’. Even though I said I would eat, you’ve left me some dinner. Victor ate with you. The containers were large enough for four people yet nly enough for one is left. I know that Rachel is in on our little secret. Who else might know? Did you tell him?

As quietly as I can, I creep into the bedroom to slip out of my clothes and into bed. You lie facing me, one hand curled under the pillow. I know that you are truly asleep by the light snore escaping from your mouth. You cannot fake that noise. I turn on my side to look at you. In this light and with every muscle relaxed, you look so young. The covers hide your stomach which I have a need to see. I know it won’t look different than it did this morning. But it is different. You are carrying my child. Why haven’t you told me yet? Did you try to wait up for me? Why did I stay out knowing we have this between us? I am not equipped for this development.

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. A sudden thought crosses my mind. What if you are unsure about my ability as a father? I’ve never demonstrated the ability to take care of anything else besides myself. Even that could be debatable between some people. What f you never mean to tell me? Perhaps you don’t want this. Maybe I’m not what you wanted for a longtime partner. We’d be bound together by blood. Is this here today and gone tomorrow? 

My heart races at the notion. That’s not you. You would never take away the option of being involved. I long to shake you awake to discuss this at four in the morning. A weight sits on my chest. Today we need to sort this out before the year closes. I glance over. You look so peaceful. If I’ve learned anything this year is that timing is everything. Now is not the time for this conversation. Perhaps tomorrow before you go to work. I can wait a few hours. I still have a slowly unraveling case before me. A few hours in my mind palace would be beneficial. Who knows what tomorrow will bring.

I’m vaguely aware of lips being pressed to my forehead. I try to pull myself out of slumber to grab your wrist. The bedroom is a dusky grey as I blink a few times before I slip back under.

The next time my eyes open, the room is a brighter. It’s later in morning, roughly 9 o’clock. You’ve long gone. I scrub a hand through my wild hair. It’s a dark and cold day, befitting my mood. 

Beside my bed, my phone buzzes. I expect to see your number. Donovan?

"What is it?" I groan.

"There’s been a development. Meet me in the lab in an hour." It’s all she says.

The hours fly from the time I leave the flat to arriving at the lab. What was thought to be a simple string of burglaries has taken a darker turn. After a few tests and a long trip to my mind palace, Donovan and I are off to a London slum. I call John, but he’s assisting a surgery. While I’m highly annoyed, a part of me is pleased for him. I know he has missed surgery. Since returning home from the war, he’d been forced into the tedious and appalling task of general practice. Old people ailments and influenza riddled children were his day when I couldn’t rescue him to assist me. Knowing that he was most likely elbow deep in a warm body cavity, pleases me. 

We stride into the drug den looking for a Willy Z. The smell cooking drugs pricks at my skin. I can feel my veins ache with the memory. How tender the crook of my arm would be after an injection. Unlike the lifeless bodies strewn about on dirty mattresses, I would take on the world with the rush of life thrumming in every cell. Until control got away from me, and I wound up on a floor much like this. 

The memory is so vivid, I tremble. What kind of father is that? A junkie struggling to keep away from a needle. It’s been very easy as of late. I hadn’t felt the urge since you left for Eastbourne. And now, today. The lure of escaping for a few hours, it’s still under the surface. Head down, I search in earnest for Willy Z.

Once we sober Willy Z up a bit, he’s very useful. He gives me enough information to lead us to an unassuming house of a well respected vicar. What we find in that house, however, turns my stomach in away that rarely occurs. Tunnels lead to an underground home filled with nine young girls in various stages of puberty. Each girl is chained to a metal frame bed with a chamber pot beside it. The smell causes Donovan to gag. The sight is what gets to me. Nine daughters have been kept in this prison for sex. The stolen birthstones were a present for each girl to wear - a token of affection. 

I’m paralyzed by the sight before me. As if in slow motion, medical personnel push past me with shock blankets. The girls cry in relief, pain or shock. My limbs feel cold and heavy. I curl my hands into fists as I charge out of that dungeon into the sitting room where the vicar sits in denial of his wrong doing. My rage is blind and I feel several hands on me at once. There’s shouting around me, but I focus on the satsifying sound of bone crunching against my fist as I watch his nose bloom with blood. 

The vicar promises to sue and wants me arrested. Donovan has a private word with him. I watch from behind the double mirror as he turns white as she’s talking low in his ear. There are a number of things she could have told him. I am sure it has something to do with Mycroft and the power he possesses. 

It’s after eight o’clock when I am able to leave NSY. I step to the curb to flag a taxi, only to bolt around the corner to vomit beside the building. The acidic taste of bile and coffee fills my mouth. My head pounds and the lack of food in the last few days is finally having an effect on me. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand when my phone buzzes. 

Where are you??? - JW 

I blink at the blurring words. The party. Right. For a moment, I think of making my apologies to you and just collapsing on the sofa to unwind. My hand twitches and I’m clawing at my own clothes. The stench of the vicars dry blood on my shirt is only making me feel nauseous. 

A group of festive people stagger past. 

"Happy New Year!" One yells at me

"Oi! Someone’s a bit light." He refers to my leaning against a brick wall with sick at my feet.

The party is a New Years party. The baby! Oh God, we were supposed to talk about that today. I pull out my phone and see one missed call and one text message from you.

Victor’s taking me to the party - L

That’s all it says. 

I hail a taxi and type furiously as I tumble into the backseat. 

Awful case. Will explain. Must change. Be there as soon as possible - SH

I stare at my phone the whole ride home, praying for anything from you. I send the same message to John.

Better be good mate - JW 

I fly into the house, tearing off my suit. A button flies across the floor. That’s disappointing. This is my favourite striped shirt. No time for that now. I don’t wait for the water to heat up and take a painfully freezing shower. As I dress in the sitting room, I see four glasses with residual wine. Victor, John, and Mary. Did you have wine? You should know better than that. The first trimester is the most precarious time in gestation. 

I don’t bother to comb my hair before I leave. As I close the door to 221, my phone buzzes. “Oh thank god.” Then I scowl. “What do you want?”

A black car pulls before me.

"I am not meeting you tonight, brother mine." I snarl.

"I know you are not. This is to get you to your party without delay." Mycroft says.

"You aren’t in there, are you?" I pause before opening the door.

"Heavens no." He chuckles coldly.

"Good." I see the backseat is empty. "Then, I thank you."

"Sherlock, no stops. Just get to that party." He warns.

"Is Lucy in danger?" I lean forward.

"No, but you are. If you don’t make this right, you’ll have to contend with Victor Trevor raising your child. Wouldn’t that be a delicious twist."

"What do you mean?" I think he’s gone mad.

"He is waiting for you to fail her so he can be the hero. I hope you thought about our conversation." 

"I have." I snap. "I am only trying to protect them. I am a walking target." 

"Sherlock, if you leave, you will make them an unprotected bullseye." His voice is so grave, it sends ice down my spine. 

I slip my phone back in my coat. Mycroft’s right. Leaving you will not keep you safe. Who better to protect you from me but me? 

I open the door before the car comes to a full stop. It’s a little past eleven. My calls have gone to voicemail and my texts are unanswered. 

I had no interest in the London New Years Ball. A night surrounded by people - all drunk on the promise of a new year. Don’t they know that nothing different happens? It’s the same thing over and over just with a different date attached. 

However Mary and John bought tickets. Then Lestrade and Molly followed. I had no choice. It was either an evening with you and Victor - or with people I could best describe as friends. You wouldn’t let me see the dress you purchased. I was assured that it was pleasing. My biggest hope for the evening was to find a private nook to engage in a rushed yet passionate session. At this moment, I hope it’s not too late to salvage everything.

The room is congested with swaying and staggering bodies. It’s a grand space with chandeliers and crystal snowflakes suspended from the ceiling. I circle to room to find you. I see Mary and Lestrade. Just beyond them, I finally catch sight of you. A shimmery blue dress hugs your curves deliciously. You know I always love you in blue. It brings your eyes to life. The plunging neckline of the dress is accentuated by your swelling breasts.  Standing too close beside you is Victor with his hand pressed to the small of your back, rather possessively. He is close enough that you could feel his breath on your bare shoulder. My stomach churns in jealousy. I hate that you allow him to touch you, but I know you’re not in your right mind.

When you turn to Molly, I freeze at the sight of your face. With your hair pulled up, your neck creates a long slender line across your shoulder and down your back. But your face is what causes my heart to stutter. Your eyes are glassy - you’ve either been crying or just on the edge of it. Though you smile, the tension creases your eyes. Mary’s arms wave emphatically and I can almost hear her spirited conversation from the other side of the room. Something she says causes you to laugh genuinely. Your face relaxes and head tosses back in delight. Sometimes, you are truly breathtaking. 

I’ve toiled for the last twenty-fours with the knowledge of your pregnancy. I have ranged almost every emotion, something I truly deplore. I feel exposed and weak in the face of it. And then I see you. The ways you have changed my life are immeasurable. As I watch all the same emotions cross your face in the span of a few minutes, I know where I belong. What if I were to allow Victor to take over? He’s so desperate for security that he will be dull and safe for you. He’d be the perfect father with hot cocoa and cardigan sweaters. Yet the thought sickens me to the core. I cannot allow another to attempt to take my place at your side. This is my child and my life.

"Where the bloody hell have you been?" John hisses.

"The gemstone case. Donovan and I…."

"I was hoping you’d been kidnapped again because that’s the only acceptable reason to leave her in her state on New Year’s Eve!" His eyes are bulging with anger.

"John, the case was so much more than simple burglaries. You should have seen them." I choked being brought back to that moment in the dungeon.

"There is no excuse for this, Sherlock." He growls.

"Child sex slaves, John." I spit back. I close my eyes. "You should have seen them. Chained to beds. Beaten. Defiled. One girl, no more than twelve was pregnant." I grit my teeth. "They are someone’s daughter."

He sees that the colour has drained from my face. “Are you okay?”

"I’ve seen quite a bit and it sickened me like nothing before." My hands grabs his shoulder to steady myself.

"Christ, have you eaten?" he asks.

I shake my head. “Not for a bit.”

"You need to go to her. She’s a wreck. I think Victor knows."

I look up. My lip curls. “Victor knows?” 

"It would explain his behaviour." John nods.

I look over to you again. Yes, he looks too comfortable at your side. Mycroft was correct that Victor would love the chance to take my place. 

I leave John in my wake to cross the room to you. 

"Well, it’s about bloody time, you tosser." Mary gives me a disapproving look.

I shoot her an icy glare. “Lucy…”

"I didn’t think you were coming. I gave Victor your ticket." Your voice is strained.

"I acquired another." I fix my stare at Victor. "You can go now."

His back stiffens. “Not unless Lucy wants me to go.”

"Lucy, I apologize. Have you received my calls or my texts?" I step closer.

You haven’t looked at me yet. 

"My mobile is in the coat room." You say.

"It was an awful case," I touch your arm. "They needed me."

You smile sadly. “They always do. It’s fine, Sherlock. Nothing I’m not used to.”

I know it’s anything but fine.

"Was it the gemstone robberies?" Lestrade asks.

I nod. “It was so much more.” I attempt to hide my excitement. “We found a dungeon with young girls. He was having the gems stolen as tokens of his sick affection.” My teeth clench.

"Jesus." Lestrade exclaims.

"A dungeon? Dear God." Mary sighs.

I feel you relax a little. “And you found them?”

I run my thumb under your elbow. “I had to. We didn’t expect that. They were so young.”

"Your hand." John motions. "How did it get swollen?"

You inspect the scrapes and bruises. “Sherlock?”

I purse my lips. “I might have taken some liberties.”

Lestrade runs a hand over his face.

"It’s fine. There were no charges." I turn to you. "Lucy…"

"Did you have it looked at?" You ask.

"No, it’s umimportant. Listen…" I start.

"Who was it?" Lestrade asks.

"Some vicar. Doesn’t matter. We caught him and those girls are with their families." My voice cracks.

I notice that Victor has not removed his hand from you. “Do you mind?”

"Actually," Victor steps closer.

"Champagne?" A waitress joins the group with a tray of bubbling flutes.

"Is it time?" Mary asks.

"Almost." John gives me a pointed look.

"Lucy, can we…" I attempt to pull you away.

"Lucy, here." Victor hands you a glass. If he knows, he’s already a terrible father.

"Oh, um, thank you." You are flustered with all the attention. 

"Can you please get your hands off of her?" I wrap my arm around you to break your connection.

"Sherlock," you wearily protest.

"Please, come with me." I ask quietly.

You look to Victor. “I’ll be right back.”

He steps away begrudgingly but not without snarling at me. If he’s not careful, I am in the right mind to put him through the wall. 

Gingerly, I take your hand to lead you away. We pause in front of the window to gaze out over London. You will not meet my gaze. I attempt to gather my thoughts in a way that will make sense when I hear the shuddering sigh.

"What is it, Sherlock? Just get it over with." Your voice breaks.

The tears falling across your cheeks stall my words. You stare at your feet and gnaw your lower lip.

"Lucy." I rest my hands on your shoulders. "Shh. This is no way to end a good year and start a better one." 

You steal a glance up into my face. 

A small smile quirks on my lips. “I am eternally sorry for not talking to you as soon as I suspected.” I tenderly place my hand on your belly. “Is it true?”

You can only nod and take in a shaky breath.

I give the flesh a gentle squeeze. “If you’ll still have me, I want to be there with you.”

Your eyes widen. “Do you think I don’t want you there?”

"I wouldn’t choose me. I’m not the pristine picture of fatherhood." I clear my throat when your face falls. "That said, this child has your DNA and I can’t wait to see what we can do."

You let out the breath you’ve been holding. “We’re mad to do this.”

I nod. “It is. I know we didn’t plan this and I do not believe in fate. Everything says this is a ridiculous notion.”

"Not helping." 

"That said, I want to see the child that contains you and me - the brain and the heart. They’ll be extraordinary." I swallow the lump forming in my throat. "With the best women I have ever known for a mother."

Finally, I see a genuine smile.

"Now Ms. Adams, will you have my child?" I tilt your face up so I can see your eyes. 

"Yes." You whisper.

Around us, a countdown is shouted from everyone in the room. 

"Now Lucy, take your last sip of champagne while there’s no placenta for the alcohol to pass through." I chime my crystal against yours. 

Glittering confetti falls around us. I wrap one arm around your slender waist knowing it won’t be that way for long. The kiss starts soft and unsure. With the tip of your tongue, I press my lips to yours firmly. This kiss feels more complete than all the ones that have preceded it. 

"Happy New Year, Sherlock." You say against my mouth.

"To the three of us, darling." I crush my lips to you again as I’m consumed with an emotion I’m not familiar with - hope.


	63. As we slip into the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then there were three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end

Victor

I watch from afar. Your body language is closed off with crossed arms and averting eyes. His hand curls around your elbow to caress the crook of your arm. 

If I was Sherlock, I could read lips and know exactly what is being said. I’ve never seen him look so despondent before. Not even when he was coming down from a mighty high. 

I know my offer will most likely not be accepted. You and I will not settle into a nice cottage with my father’s money and your growing belly. I’d build a stone wall and you’d keep a garden. I’d be happy enough with that.

However, the two of you outlined by London’s cityscape are truly striking. His dark to your light, his sharpness to your softness. Two opposites that slot perfectly together.

I watch your features soften, and I’ve lost you. How can I say that? Neither of you were ever mine.

In the distance, I hear the countdown around me. Couples cling to each other. His hand rests on your belly. The look in his eyes breaks my heart. I knew he loved you, but this is beyond that. It’s belonging and home. Little awkward Sherlock has found his place in the world.

As confetti falls, you kiss. Limbs entwine as the deal is sealed. You’re going to be parents and a family. I can’t help the tears that prickle. I’m an extra person now. I had hoped to stay on for awhile. Sherlock was beginning to accept my presence. I felt at home.

I sigh. I’ve always been the extra person. I don’t know what I hoped.

Looking around, all I see are couples tangled together. In a room filled with people, I feel so very alone. 

I watch him lead you back to your group of friends. I know what’s next. His arm around with a proud grin. There is a gleeful yet shy expression as you break the happy news. Mary shrieks and pulls you into a hug. Sherlock and John share a knowing handshake. It’s so much happiness, that I feel sick.

I’m happy that he came around for you. I seriously hope he sticks by his word and surprises me one more time. You deserve better. 

 

You make a striking pair with your hands joined. He looks, dare I say, ecstatic yet content. I’ve never seen him appear so….normal.

With shoulders slumped, I leave the party to pack my things. I won’t be there when you get home tonight. 

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. When I started, I had no storyline, the flatmate had no name and I had no idea what it would become. 18 months, 182 Episodes, 63 chapters, 164,590 words and countless fans later, I would say this has been a great joy. Thank you to everyone.
> 
> Coming soon: Sherlock as a Father


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